— Don't do that.
— Do what?
— The look.
— You're doing the look again.
— Well, I can't see it, can I? It's my face.
— Yes and you're doing a "We both know what's really going on here" face.
— We do.
— No, I don't, which is why I find the face so annoying.
Thy bosom is endeard with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have supposd dead,
And there reigns love and all love's loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought burid.
Their images I loved I view in thee,
And thou (all they) hast all the all of me.
She had a very thin face like the dial of a small clock seen faintly in a dark room in the middle of a night when you waken to see the time and see the clock telling you the hour and the minute and the second, with a white silence and a glowing, all certainty and knowing what it has to
tell of the night passing swiftly on toward further darknesses but moving also toward a new sun.