It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. She spoke readily enough, but there was a new timidity in her manner. We'll get those books into your room first. ‘You do not believe me?’ ‘I do not. 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. A small voice greeted her, hissing. Now I shall never hear it but what this evening will come pouring back over me.
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