There was no past, no future, only this exhilarating present. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. It must be somewhere hereabouts. There he stands. She heard the bamboo curtain rattle slightly. This is part of a dream— some evil fancy. With a little more meat on him, he would be handsome. Wrenching his hands from her shoulders, she thrust them away and leapt up from the chair. 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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