Kneebone and his friends would be glad of a little refreshment. As she talked, the drift and significance of what she was saying shaped itself slowly to Ann Veronica’s apprehension. The biological laboratory, perpetually viewing life as pairing and breeding and selection, and again pairing and breeding, seemed only a translated generalization of that assertion. The telegram reminded Ann Veronica that she had no place for interviews except her bed-sitting-room, and she sought her landlady and negotiated hastily for the use of the ground floor parlor, which very fortunately was vacant. We stepped from the Embassy into the motor—and oh! I thought that he was dead.
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