'" "What is that?" she asked. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. 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. Marvel, in a tone intended to be consolatory. “Showtime!” Martin cried. ‘Couldn’t even trouble to make a pretence of motherhood.
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