Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. Spurlock knew that somewhere along the way he would write a story worth while. Poor fellow! he sometimes indulges the hope of marrying you, when he grows old enough. "I will struggle no longer with destiny. To be exact, it was just sixteen hours and twenty minutes. Nevertheless it was overwhelming. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. He next twisted the heavy gyves round and round, and partly by main strength, partly by a dexterous and well-applied jerk, sapped asunder the central link by which they were attached to the padlock. 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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