It was not possible. I spent my fair share of time in the closet. My garden-close would be a better thing than that. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. He had the same dark eyes, though lighted by a fierce flame; the same sallow complexion; the same tall, thin figure, and majestic demeanour; the same proud cast of features. “Time for my Patience,” she said.
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