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. “And yet you still live, Butterfly. The elusive Jane tapped her on the shoulder after class. What could I do at home? The other’s a crumple-up—just surrender. Her fingers rested upon his. A mate? A brother-lover to tromp about the world with? “I cannot. They seed beyond all reason. Spurling. Perhaps an hour passed before she laid aside the book. She uttered a little ejaculative note of joy and rushed to the bed. The door was fastened by a catch and a latch with an inside key, to which at night a chain and two bolts were added.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTUuMTQ5LjIyMiAtIDAyLTA2LTIwMjQgMDU6MTU6MzUgLSAxMDM2MzE2OTA1
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