He stamped his last letter as Annabel entered. 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. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls’ heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. “I suppose he’s frightfully clever,” said Miss Klegg. The kiss was powerfully moving. He probably imagines himself to be a thousand times worse off than he actually is. It is all very complex. And then all her restlessness was turned to joy. It is for that reason that this novel begins with her there, and neither earlier nor later, for it is the history of this crisis and its consequences that this novel has to tell.
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