Agnes has no interest in looking like her mother, no interest in the idea of commonality, any quirks or expressions or features they might have shared. Looking like her father is, frankly, bad enough. She can’t quite articulate the discomfort at the root of all this, the fact that it sometimes feels less like discomfort and more like out-and-out fear. She can’t explain it, except to say that the thought of looking like someone seems only a prelude to the thought of acting like them. How long, if you really resemble a person, can you stop yourself from falling in step with them? How long until
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