“You are afraid,” she said, “that the young man who thinks that he is my husband has upset me. She did not wait, but grabbed up the lantern and slid into the passage, calling to them to hurry. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. Ruth obeyed, not willingly, but because there was something hypnotic in the authoritative tone. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. He yelled at the girls for neglected to hand Lucy a pair of shorts or a sweater while they stood around in shock. 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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