I suppose most of our daughters would marry organ-grinders if they had a chance—at that age. They walked past his old jungle gym set to a hilly park that dwelled sleepily beyond his house. "Rowland," she said, in a faint voice, "I have not many minutes to live. And will you look! His name neatly cut out from each title page. The rest were hieroglyphic characters, executed in red chalk and charcoal. 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. But also this must not go on.
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