Once she had asked him: "Are you my father?" He had answered: "I am. Single pearls— Lord knows where they come from!—are always turning up, some of them of fine lustre; but I never set eyes on them. 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. And I’m afraid.
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