She does not look at you. She looks through you, beyond you.
As a teaser for our next story, I bring you some of the most purple prose ever written about a person on trial:
Among students of human nature the eyes are generally conceded to be indicative of many things that other features or mannerisms can never reveal.
Those who have seen Audrey Campbell Jacob since the tragic death of Cyril Gidley have commented haphazardly on various features of her beauty. But her eyes have been discussed by every observer.
She was in the court for three hours on Thursday. Most of the time her face was downcast. She cried at intervals, and once her whole frame was shaken by sobs that seemed to suggest a coming breakdown.
But by supreme efforts she managed each time to regain control. Whenever she did raise her face it was her eyes that attracted everybody’s gaze. They are eyes that the student of human nature would never forget.
They are not big, nor yet small. Medium sized is a fair description. They are fairly well back under her brows, but not deep set.
They are not the eyes of a coquette or a woman accustomed to using her eyes as women are supposed from times immemorial to have used them. They are the eyes of one whose thoughts are really not with the immediate things around them.
There is about them the mistiness that is not brought by tears, but is associated almost with the dreamer. She does not look at you. She looks through you, beyond you, away somewhere in the distance as it were.
They are of no defined shade. Blue-grey would probably be the nearest description. They are the eyes that suggest artistry and intellect and the habits of one who thinks much. They seem to be forever looking for something that is not in the immediate vision.
At what far-away thing are they looking, of what far-away thing is she dreaming, here in this public place when her thoughts should be so alert? They are remarkable, the eyes of this twenty-year-old girl, the most remarkable I think that I have ever seen in or out of court.