I know there’s a sort of right in your impatience at the slowness of Progress. Not a word was uttered for some time, nor any sound heard except the stilled sobs of the unfortunate mother. "Allow him that small grace," cried Wood. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. They watched the chimpanzees in the new apes’ house, and admired the gentle humanity of their eyes—“so much more human than human beings”—and they watched the Agile Gibbon in the next apartment doing wonderful leaps and aerial somersaults. " "Only three days," reiterated the widow, "three short short days,—and then all is over. "Whatever your intelligence may be I will strive to bear it. Besides, it is all reversed now, you know.
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