A is A

           Whensheopenedhereyes,shesawsunlight,greenleavesandaman’sface.Shethought:Iknowwhatthisis.Thiswastheworldasshehadexpectedtoseeitatsixteen—andnowshehadreachedit—anditseemedsosimple,sounastonishing,thatthethingshefeltwaslikeablessingpronouncedupontheuniversebymeansofthreewords:Butofcourse.

           Shewaslookingupatthefaceofamanwhokneltbyherside,andsheknewthatinalltheyearsbehindher,thiswaswhatshewouldhavegivenherlifetosee:afacethatborenomarkofpainorfearorguilt.Theshapeofhismouthwaspride,andmore:itwasasifhetookprideinbeingproud.Theangularplanesofhischeeksmadeherthinkofarrogance,oftension,ofscorn—yetthefacehadnoneofthesequalities,ithadtheirfinalsum:alookofserenedeterminationandofcertainty,andthelookofaruthlessinnocencewhichwouldnotseekforgivenessorgrantit.Itwasafacethathadnothingtohideortoescape,afacewithnofearofbeingseen,orofseeing,sothatthefirstthingshegraspedabouthimwastheintenseperceptivenessofhiseyes—helookedasifhisfacultyofsightwerehisbest-lovedtoolanditsexercisewerealimitless,joyousadventure,asifhiseyesimpartedasuperlativevaluetohimselfandtotheworld—tohimselfforhisabilitytosee,totheworldforbeingaplacesoeagerlyworthseeing.Itseemedtoherforamomentthatshewasinthepresenceofabeingwhowaspureconsciousness—yetshehadneverbeensoawareofaman’sbody.