There was a vague familiarity to this man, though he figured it merely passing. The workman had … a face. Then Zechariah’s face flushed when the workman looked up from his prone position and, indeed, actually had a face. A face he could not imagine having forgotten easily, if only to resent all that was beautiful being forever out of his reach.

A face he could not imagine a moment in which anything might have overshadowed it, although it clearly had.

“You do not have your own materials?” he said skeptically.