When she came to, she was lying with her head in Martha’s lap, and a livid bruise was forming at the point of a raging headache. 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. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. She just sat and told me that was her arrangement. She crawled over and caught at the skirts of this white woman who understood.
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