“Your brother has gone?” she asked Sydney, between the courses. His red hair marked him, cut short into a round shape that had the texture of a Brillo pad. 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 I wrapped it in that nun’s gear you give me. He jumped back, cursing. The major will not call.
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