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- Джон Фоулз
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A
lilywhite
boy
.
He
’
s
six
feet
.
Eight
or
nine
inches
more
than
me
.
Skinny
,
so
he
looks
taller
than
he
is
.
Gangly
.
Hands
too
big
,
a
nasty
fleshy
white
and
pink
.
Not
a
man
’
s
hands
.
Adam
’
s
apple
too
big
,
wrists
too
big
,
chin
much
too
big
,
underlip
bitten
in
,
edges
of
nostrils
red
.
Adenoids
.
He
’
s
got
one
of
those
funny
inbetween
voices
,
uneducated
trying
to
be
educated
.
It
keeps
on
letting
him
down
.
His
whole
face
is
too
long
.
Dull
black
hair
.
It
waves
and
recedes
,
it
’
s
coarse
.
Stiff
.
Always
in
place
.
He
always
wears
a
sports
coat
and
flannels
and
a
pinned
tie
.
Even
cuff
-
links
.
He
’
s
what
people
call
a
"
nice
young
man
.
"
Absolutely
sexless
(
he
looks
)
.
He
has
a
way
of
standing
with
his
hands
by
his
side
or
behind
his
back
,
as
if
he
doesn
’
t
know
what
on
earth
to
do
with
them
.
Respectfully
waiting
for
me
to
give
my
orders
.
Fish
-
eyes
.
They
watch
.
That
’
s
all
.
No
expression
.
He
makes
me
feel
capricious
.
Like
a
dissatisfied
rich
customer
(
he
’
s
a
male
assistant
in
a
draper
’
s
)
.
It
’
s
his
line
.
The
mock
-
humble
.
Ever
-
so
-
sorry
.
I
sit
and
eat
my
meals
and
read
a
book
and
he
watches
me
.
If
I
tell
him
to
go
,
he
goes
.
