She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. Swiftly following the sound of knocking, she crossed right and passed through a door near the windows—and found herself in the bookroom. There was no one else in the doorway. 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. ‘You said?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham, your great-aunt, miss.
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