This man was her husband in the eyes of both God and man. 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. Ray Plote was most certainly feeling restless, what if he had left the house for the evening? She needed to eat. I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word with a deep look ‘— with one I feel to be a stranger. “I did it for love of you,” he said. I can’t even make myself care.
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