His eyes glowed beneath the glasses and his blue buttondown shirt was reflected in the lenses. Sheppard. Papillon would have broken him down; anything tender would have sapped his will; and like as not he would have left the stool and rushed into the night. He seemed so clean anyway, his fair 215 skin, his light brown hair, there almost seemed to be no point. Oh, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors.
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