It wasn’t so much women as Woman that engaged his mind. To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered. “I don’t know. "I'm sorry," she said. ‘This journey I do not like,’ she said more loudly. His condition is not unfavourable, but there may be a relapse at any moment. Do you know, I am beginning to believe that we only exist nowadays by the tolerance of these millionaire tradesmen. 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. Then she and her husband went off to a Yorkshire practice, and had four more babies, none of whom photographed well, and so she passed beyond the sphere of Ann Veronica’s sympathies altogether. It did not shock her; it amazed her, interested her beyond measure. All men are bloody fucking hypocrites.
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