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She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. . Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. 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.
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