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. Every drop of blood in her body glowed and expanded. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue. “Yet it is my last evening, and I think —if you are sure that you would like to have me—that I will risk it. “What have I been all this time?” she asked herself, and answered, “Just stark egotism, crude assertion of Ann Veronica, without a modest rag of religion or discipline or respect for authority to cover me!” It seemed to her as though she had at last found the touchstone of conduct. "You've given him a broken head, I perceive. "It's all over," groaned Wood, "and perhaps it's as well her senses are gone.
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