The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. ” “Oh, Drummond’s dinner!” she repeated. He whispered in her ear. “You too sing?” he asked. 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. For a long time to come that would naturally be the theme of any story he undertook to write.
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