It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. ” He turned upon her almost fiercely. “John. She could tell that he was furious in that instant. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally.
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