On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. I know why. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. She found herself asking more and more curiously, “Why, on the principle of the survival of the fittest, have I any sense of beauty at all?” That enabled her to go on thinking about beauty when it seemed to her right that she should be thinking about biology.
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