Again, he would ask a few questions, and Ruth would answer them. He sat down beside her just as the room became darker. His pulses beat fast as he walked, his feet fell lightly upon the pavement. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. Instead, they appeared to be at the hygienic level of tramps’ lodging-houses. 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. So it would always be between herself and Manning. Indeed, it seemed inevitable that she must clear it up with his assistance, or not at all.
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