She found herself asking more and more curiously, “Why, on the principle of the survival of the fittest, have I any sense of beauty at all?” That enabled her to go on thinking about beauty when it seemed to her right that she should be thinking about biology. “I can’t conceive what you want. Can you kill yourself?” He asked quietly. Wood could stand it no longer. “Yes. They were just nice. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. The whole story of your relationship is a fabrication. He's passed through some rough mental torture.
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