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She stole a few glances at John as she stood and played the pieces. 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. CHAPTER XXIII Next morning Ruth did not refer to the episode on the sands of the lagoon. I used to go by the name Lucy Iovelli, which was my natural father’s surname. Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. “That sounds so uncouth,” she murmured. He was a stranger. “Is Larry already in bed?” Cathy nodded yes. He began munching his water-chestnuts—a small brown radish-shaped vegetable, with the flavour of coconut—that grow along the river brims. .
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