Give me one minute, she told him.

He watched her retreat to their bathroom, face the small mirror there and take up a brush for her hair. Good, dark hair it was, nearly black, and long. She wore it pulled back, she wore it twisted atop her head, she sometimes wore it down, where it came to just below her shoulders. He watched her take the simple hair tie from it now, give her head a little twist to shake it down, then begin to pull the brush through it, chin down and looking up at herself in the mirror. From where he watched he could hear the shush shush shush of the brush as she worked.

The Italian Novel

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