Then as he was absently fingering the edges of an uncut page with a transient sense of frustation, his glance wandered along the aisle where he was standing and he received a shock that could not have been greater if a brick had been thrown through the plate-glass shop-window.
He saw Jill.
She stepped out from behind an alcove, working her way slowly along the shelves, moving eventually in his direction. There was nothing casual in the resemblance: it was so exact that for a second his mind could not remember who it was, this overfamiliar face. And he was too bewildered to think as the realization came upon him.
It was her hair, the colour of dark viscous honey, her serious face, her wild high cheekbones. Little hollows appeared and reappeared under these because, as John saw when he approached, she was whistling very softly. Her winter coat hung open and woollen gloves were stuffed into the pockets. Instead of stockings, she wore little socks, and her hands, now that she had taken a book down and was turning the pages - were small, bony and not well-cared for. As John drew near to her, she glanced up at him and backed a few paces absently to allow him to pass.
An interval elapsed, during which time John, making no effort to pass, stood staring at her. It was absurd, laughable, unbelievable. Then for a second time she looked up and met his wide eyes with her grey, utterly strange ones. Both of them, both so young-looking, stared one another.
Philip Larkin, Jill, Faber & Faber, 1964 (1ª edição).