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. As soon as the manacles were slipped over the prisoner's wrists, and the new padlock secured to the staple, they withdrew. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers.
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