Easy enough. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. " "Norris!" gasped Lady Trafford, trembling violently. 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 time it really seemed all-sufficient to her that she should love. ‘Sapristi,’ he gasped. “Was I that bad?” He asked.
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