‘Monsieur Charvill thought perhaps that his daughter would find not a welcome. It seemed intolerable that she should go home and admit herself beaten. ’ Gerald opened his eyes at her. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. 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. Immediately the "boy" went forth with his paper lantern, repeating a cry as he ran—warning to clear the way.
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