‘You knew her well, Miss Mary?’ Mrs Ibstock turned at the window. “I knew that you waited at the farmhouse. A few minutes later Sir John left the room. I didn’t understand before that letter. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. She realized that with a pang of disgust and horror. 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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