“I’ll go,” she vowed to the night, “or I’ll die!” She made plans and estimated means and resources. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. “How are you feeling?” She asked with grave concern in her voice. Death belongs to God, young man. 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. “I like your brother better than any other man I know,” Anna said at last. . He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them. You don’t have to live forever to understand that.
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