I reach for the napkin, and as I do I catch sight of my hands. They are knobby and crooked, thin-skinned, and - like my ruined face - covered with liver spots. My face. I push the porridge aside and open the vanity mirror. I should know better by now, but somehow I still expect to see myself. Instead I find an Appalachian apple doll, withered and spotty, with dewlaps and bags and long floppy ears. A few strands of white hair spring absurdly from its spotted skull.
-Sara Gruen, Water for Elephants
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