I was standing near Jack at that awful moment, and beheld the look Wild fixed on him. His brute strength surged through her veins, she could feel his energy in her heart, his life force stolen like candy from a baby. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. But, answer me. 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. “The doctor has asked me to give them my reasons—for shooting myself. .
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