His father’s face took on an expression of infinite sadness. "Peter, you...
I’m sorry. Do as you wish." He turned to leave, then stopped in the doorway, his
shoulders impossibly tired. With his back still to his son, William Clarris gave 
a deep sigh before turning around once more. He rubbed his hands over his face. 
When he took his hands away, his flesh looked cool and corpse-white before 
warmth and color flowed back in. His mouth looked pinched taut and old, though 
he was no more than forty.