She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. She brought her hands up to her head and ripped out two long chunks of her hair, pulling out shreds of scalp. No sooner had they entered the room than Sharples, who waited to usher them in, hastily retreated, closed the door, and turning the key, laughed loudly at the success of his stratagem. 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. A vein of conviction mingled with his burlesque. " "Your secret?" demanded Trenchard, impatiently.
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