So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. 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. It's infernally provoking. "I merely asked the question," he said, after he had enjoyed the boy's suspense for a moment. His name was Peter.
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