Thousand splendid suns (page 46)

At the point when Jalil entered the clearing, he would toss his coat on the oven and open his arms. Mariam would walk, at that point at last run, to him, and he would get her under the arms and hurl her up high. Mariam would screech.

Suspended noticeable all around, Mariam would see Jalil's upturned face underneath her, his wide, screwy grin, his dowager's pinnacle, his split jaw - an ideal pocket for the tip of her pinkie - his teeth, the whitest in a town of spoiling molars. She loved his trimmed mustache, and she preferred that regardless of the climate he generally wore a suit on his visits - dull dark colored, his most loved shading, with the white triangle of a tissue in the front pocket - and sleeve fasteners as well, and a tie, normally red, which he cleared out relaxed. Mariam could see herself as well, reflected in the dark colored of Jalil's eyes: her hair surging, her face bursting with fervor, the sky behind her.