the thorn birds colleen mccullough

They're talking away like old hens, and where did he get Australian
beer for them? He likes them, and he's interested, I suppose.
Everything is grist to the mill of a German industrialist-politician,
isn't it? How can he stick to his faith, being what he is? An enigma,
that's what you are, Rainer Moerling Hartheim. Friend of popes and
cardinals, friend of Justine O'neill. Oh, if you weren't so ugly I'd
kiss you, I'm so terribly grateful. Lord, fancy being stuck in Rome
with the Unks and no Rain! You are well named.
He was sitting back in his chair, listening while Bob told him about
shearing, and having nothing better to do because he had so
completely taken charge, Justine watched him curiously. Mostly she
noticed everything physical about people immediately, but just
occasionally that vigilance slipped and people stole up on her,
carved a niche in her life without her having made that vital initial
assessment. For if it wasn't made, sometimes years would go by
before they intruded into her thoughts again as strangers. Like now,
watching Rain. That first meeting had been responsible, of course;
surrounded by churchmen, awed, frightened, brazening it out. She
had noticed only the obvious things: his powerful build, his hair,
how dark he was. Then when he had taken her off to dinner the
chance to rectify things had been lost, for he had forced an
awareness of himself on her far beyond his physical attributes; she
had been too interested in what the mouth was saying to look at the
mouth.
He wasn't really ugly at all, she decided now. He looked what he
was, perhaps, a mixture of the best and the worst. Like a Roman
emperor. No wonder he loved the city. It was his spiritual home. A