Think if your own mother was alive!” He paused, deeply moved. " And he pointed significantly to the hand. 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. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. She wondered even at this late day how she had been able to hold her maddening curiosity in check. .
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