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. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. ‘That’s right, you bone idle do-nothings. . It had been removed from the scabbard by the Jew. Wood had the advantage of her husband in point of years, being on the sunny side of forty,—a period pronounced by competent judges to be the most fascinating, and, at the same time, most critical epoch of woman's existence,—whereas, he was on the shady side of fifty,—a term of life not generally conceived to have any special recommendation in female eyes.
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