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. At the least, the tales had the ability to make her forget where she was; which was something in their favour. His arms slipped around her waist as they were on the doorstep and he kissed her lips sweetly. “Why will you not be sensible? Go back to your old life and your old friends, and forget all about Paris and this absurd delusion of yours. He sent me home. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute.
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