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” Annabel looked intently into her glass. Help—should she need it—from the natives was out of the question. Into one of these he waded and rolled and rolled, despite her commands. 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. ’ I don’t know what you’d call it —a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness.
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