The cage at Willesden was, and is—for it is still standing—a small round building about eight feet high, with a pointed tiled roof, to which a number of boards, inscribed with the names of the parish officers, and charged with a multitude of admonitory notices to vagrants and other disorderly persons, are attached. She found herself asking more and more curiously, “Why, on the principle of the survival of the fittest, have I any sense of beauty at all?” That enabled her to go on thinking about beauty when it seemed to her right that she should be thinking about biology. “Please not now. “Dear friend,” she said, “do not magnify me into a physiological problem. I was the black sheep, I was hurried out of the way. He asked me out two days ago and I thought, hell, why not?” Michelle answered.
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