We struggle against it at first, but in the end we have to submit. How she had coveted her mother’s beauty and sought to emulate it, if only to please her. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. 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. Nothing else so quickly establishes the condition of comradeship as the sharing of a laughable incident. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. Yet the fact remains that you do not understand me at all.
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