Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. He smiled. Narrow little beady brown eyes, and she’s got big eyebrows like dead caterpillars. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. It had been brighter than the rest, for dawn light had come in through high unshuttered casements above the bookshelves.
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