She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. Either it was an unfortunate recovery of a trail, or he had followed her from Mayfair. 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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