The ruffled chemise-front under the wide lapels of her waistcoat and jacket no longer quivered, and her pose, with the full cloth petticoat spreading about her, was relaxed. Spurlock advanced, the censer swung high. 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. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. "I have sworn to see him hanged," he said, "and nothing shall keep me away— nothing, by——.
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