’ Lucilla eyed him with one of those particularly feminine looks it was difficult for a mere male to interpret. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. 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. Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously. I'm a slave to my word. " He paused, and not without malice.
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