she had become incapable of concealing beneath a mask of impassivity what she was thinking, or rather – thinking puts it too high – what was going through her mind, nodding her head, pursing her lips, shrugging her shoulders at every impression she was feeling like a drunk does, or a small child, or poets who, sensing inspiration and oblivious to their surroundings, start composing a poem at a social gathering, furrowing their eyebrows and distorting their features, to the astonishment of the woman on their arm whom they are taking in to dinner.
