"You musht do dat shob yourself, Mishter Vild," rejoined Abraham, shaking his head. " "Ah!" ejaculated the widow, hiding her face. ” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. The biological laboratory, perpetually viewing life as pairing and breeding and selection, and again pairing and breeding, seemed only a translated generalization of that assertion. "Here, wife—hostess—fetch me that bottle from the second shelf in the corner cupboard.
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