" There were two Condemned Holds,—one for each sex. The walls rocked, the footrail of the bed wavered, and the girl's head had the nebulosity of a composite photograph. “But I am your husband,” he said. What is it you’re after? Money, I suppose. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival.
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