The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. 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. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. . She had omitted that the flu had been called the Black Death and that it was a dead child that had been inside that womb, so many hundreds of years ago.
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