is glance.

The slightest movement of the lips, the faintest contraction of the
nostrils, scarcely perceptible changes in the expression of the eye,
an altered voice, and those indescribable shades of feeling which pass
over her features, or the light which sometimes bursts forth from
them, are intelligible language to you.

The whole woman nature stands before you; all look at her, but none
can interpret her thoughts. But for you, the eye is more or less
dimmed, wide-opened or closed; the lid twitches, the eyebrow moves; a
wrinkle, which vanishes as quickly as a ripple on the ocean, furrows
her brow for one moment; the lip tightens, it is slightly curved or it
is wreathed with animation--for you the woman has spoken.

If in those puzzling moments in which a woman tries dissimulation in
presence of her husband, you have the spirit of a sphinx in seeing
through her, you will plainly observe that your custom-house
restrictions are mere child's play to her.

When she comes home or goes out, when in a word she believes she is
alone, your wife will exhibit all the imprudence of a jackdaw and will
tell her secret aloud to herself; moreover, by her sudden change of
expression the moment she notices you (and despite the rapidity of
this change, you will not fail to have observed the expression she
wore behind your back) you may read her soul as if you were reading a
book of Plain Song. Moreover, your wife will often find herself just
on the point of indulging in soliloquies, and on such occasions her
husband may recognize the secret feelings of his wife.

Is there a man as heedless of love's mysteries as not to have admired,
over and over again, the light, mincing, even bewitching gait of a
woman who flies on her way to keep an assignation? She glides through
the crowd, like a snake through the grass. The costumes and stuffs of
the latest fashion spread out their dazzling attractions in the shop
windows without claiming her attention; on, on she goes like the
faithful animal who follows the invisible tracks of his master; she is
deaf to all compliments, blind to all glances, insensible even to the
light touch of the crowd, which is inevitable amid the circulation of
Parisian humanity. Oh, how deeply she feels the value of a minute! Her
gait, her toilet, the expression of her face, involve her in a
thousand indiscretions, but oh, what a ravishing picture she presents
to the idler, and what an ominous page for the eye of a h