"Impossible!" exclaimed the widow, wildly. "If," interrupted Jackson, changing his tone: "he does live. 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. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. Is there anything you'd like?" "Books. "I am twenty," said the girl.
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