How strange I ‘ve never seen myself. Stranger that you should see me when I ‘ve not had the privilege. Of course there ‘s a mirror handy enough, but I soon forget whatever that was trying to show me. I ‘m only made aware again that I have a face when I dis-cover my mistake or when the wind gnaws at my ears and nose or when I ‘m angry – more still when angry at my anger.
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How strange that you should enjoy a privilege I feel ought to be my own. Why do n’t I have first say in this matter? Ought n’t my face to be mine in the first? How is it that you can first notice what I am so rarely aware of. And yet, I ‘ve little else to go on in my dealings with you; our faces all reflect something, even when we ‘re not aware of what or where.