It isn’t her cup size or complexion, though she is ample and lily-white. Oh, she is quite pretty. She is visually stunning, in fact. Seeing her in a flowing skirt and a Indian-fabric blouse is surely a wonder. Her hair is a delightful tangle of red cascading down her neck and shoulders, a strand of silver here and there, if not hidden by the salon. Her mouth is wide, the lips full, her dark eyes clear and intense. Her face is washed by sorrow and joy, like a stone made smooth by water. Compassion, it says. There is her beauty. The way she holds herself, the way her eyes move, effortlessly, without a trace of affectation or cruelty, everything about her won me. Hers is the secret face I put myself to sleep by.

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