Of all of the extraordinary and beautiful things in the world, none of them had ever happened to Charles Carlton. There was nothing wrong with Charles Carlton, unless it is wrong to never be right. His clothes were smart and never quite fit him, and though their hue and cut perfectly suited him, his own complexion was the wrong colour to suit them. The last time he had had a haircut that he liked was twenty-nine years ago, when his mother had last taken him to the barber. His eyes shone like small puddles, and his voice reminded others of…
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