He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. Not a word passed between them. They were both dressed in every respect alike. She clenched her hands together and leaned forward in her chair, gazing steadily into the fire. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. Why should some things and not others open the deeps?” “Well, that might, after all, be an outcome of selection—like the preference for blue flowers, which are not nearly so bright as yellow, of some insects.
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