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“That afternoon, she'd looked across at Storrow, at his proud, immaculate features and depthless gaze, and felt as if this man was every man she'd ever hated. He was Torsten; he was Vasily; he was every brutal narcissist who lived to impress his distortions of reality upon souls weaker than his own- which Storrow had, misguidedly, taken hers to be.” — Robin Kirman
That afternoon, she'd looked across at Storrow, at his proud, immaculate features and depthless gaze, and felt as if this man was every man she'd ever hated. He was Torsten; he was Vasily; he was every brutal narcissist who lived to impress his distortions of reality upon souls weaker than his own- which Storrow had, misguidedly, taken hers to be.