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. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. To the Seven Cities of Refuge Jack proceeded. Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously.
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