‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. Her naked body was an abomination of caked filth and sagging tubes for breasts. Nevertheless, Sir John had the look of a man who was enjoying himself. 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. This too shall pass.
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