Something with iron resolve the father had kept hidden all these years in the lonely citadel of his heart. She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. He hated the taste of it. Go to it.
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