Mr. He was almost frightening in silhouette, his hair uncontrollable under the best of circumstances, but that changed when you saw his face. She tiptoed into the entryway where some decorator had placed a live orchid upon a glassy ebony table. It was filled with sopping lichens and green benches too slimy to sit upon. Still no sound. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones.
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