. " "As you please, Sir," replied the tapstress, coolly. Entering London, he bent his way towards the west-end; and having some knowledge of a secondhand tailor's shop in Rupert Street, proceeded thither, and looked out a handsome suit of mourning, with a sword, cloak, and hat, and demanded the price. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. He took up his hat and went. She recognized the cloth at once, waylaid him, and with that directness of speech particularly hers she explained what she wanted. All they left it was the moon and stars. 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. " "You paint yourself worse than you are, dear Mrs.
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