‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair. It’s not fair to you. You look like a movie star. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. She had been fighting down this thought for days: that Hoddy did not care, that he did not love her, that he had mistaken a vagary of the mind for a substance, and now regretted what he had done— married a girl who was not his equal in anything. Oh! my dear, dear son, be warned in time. I keep on thinking of little details and aspects of your voice, your eyes, the way you walk, the way your hair goes back from the side of your forehead. ” Her eyes were lit with humour.
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