Shrike
She felt irked and wrenched her attention loose and squinted at the price tag. The suit had cost him $11.98. She felt that that placed him and looked at his face again as if she were fortified against it now. He had a nose like a shrike’s bill and a long vertical crease on either side of his mouth; his hair looked as if it had been permanently flattened under the heavy hat, but his eyes were what held her attention longest. Their settings were so deep, to her, almost like passages leading somewhere and she leaned halfway across the space that separated the two seats, trying to see them.
from Wise Blood, Flannery O’Connor
