He had been doing that for a very long time this evening. But there was no vanity in the examination. He had looked at himself in the mirror for years, searching the face of a man he despised. He had seen himself grow older, had seen the shell grow harder, the eyes grow more empty each succeeding year. No, there was nothing to admire in the face that looked back at him. But there was another reason to look now. How much did his daughter resemble him? Would there be a certain acknowledgment between them? He had spent so much time this afternoon looking at her pictures, and recalling the morning he first saw her here. Her hair was gold, a slightly darker shade than his, but that was not unusual. Meara’s red hair was also touched by gold, and Sanders, he recalled, had light brown hair. No giveaway there. Eyes? Her eyes were blue. He hadn’t seen them a week ago, but he knew from the information sent to him that they were blue. Bright blue. Not the dark inky blue of his own. There was nothing else, he thought, to link them.
