Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. 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. Cut to pieces —slashed—bloodied. ’ ‘Of course I am, imbecile,’ she snapped, unconsciously echoing her greatniece. I'm a poor nurse. “Troubles, my friend,” she exclaimed lightly.
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