The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. His hand traveled below her loose neckline, and he cupped her round breast in his hand. ‘I don’t know that I dare. It had neither succumbed to her nor wrathfully overwhelmed her. It is the same with animals. 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. It is no more a murder, but a duel, you understand.
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