Something in her tone made him look up. What a pity! But why? There was no way over this puzzle, nor under it, nor around it: that men should drink, knowing the inevitable payment. “Here we are,” he said, “shining through each other like light through a stained-glass window. ” Capes suddenly abandoned his attitude of meditative restraint. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, assuming a fearful accent. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. What was the wench at? Yet he could not maintain this stand off forever. 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.
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