“The things involved in it are,” he answered gravely. She grasped at the right one, massaging where his grip had been and Gerald hoped he had not bruised her. She had now the clear and tranquil expression of one whose mind is made up. Think! You could not have done it. 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. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. In you—if you can love me—there is salvation.
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