A man might be without relatives, but certainly he would not be without friends, that is to say, without letters. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. ‘But this is altogether a chance of the luckiest. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. I know exactly what I am doing. 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. Those with true power were the Oracles.
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