Still, he carried the pulpit in front of him always, and his voice rang out and reverberated in the dome of my skull: I know everything about you, I see everything about you, looking at you is just like looking in a mirror. When I stared back at him, it was not to be defiant, but to insist that I was not simply the image of everything he hated about himself and was powerless to change, that my face was distinct from his, was mine.
