‘Quite wrong, monsieur. With some difficulty he contrived to raise her to the window, and with still greater difficulty to squeeze her through it—her bulk being much greater than his own. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. The biological laboratory, perpetually viewing life as pairing and breeding and selection, and again pairing and breeding, seemed only a translated generalization of that assertion. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited. Visible underneath his collar were some metal tags. I can smell you.
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