He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. Groans and hoots were now raised by the crowd, and there was an evident disposition to rescue. Hardened as he may be, that would touch him. 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. Sheppard trembled violently; and though she understood his meaning too well, she answered,—"I can't guess.
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