Not once during the ceremony did the two look at each other, but riveted their gaze upon the lips of the man who was forging the bands: gazed intensively, as if they feared the world might vanish before the last word of the ceremony was spoken. By the time she was done, the bodies in the bathtub were gathering flies. "Bess wouldn't bear a rival. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. ‘But what way, Emile?’ ‘Your family, mademoiselle, the family of your father. 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.
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