“Mab: You know, Bill, you should see an optometrist about that rolling-eye problem. Makes you look rude and patronizing.”

“You need not see what someone is doing to know if it is his vocation, you have only to watch his eyes: a cook mixing a sauce, as surgeon making a primary incision, a clerk completing a bill of lading, wear that same rapt expression, forgetting themselves in a function. How beautiful it is, that eye-on-the-object look.”

“What about King Tut’s tomb?” I protested.“That boy king?” Zia rolled her eyes. “Boring. You should see some of the good tombs.”

“Working for Mab now, are you, Wolfman?" he smirked. "Like a good little attack dog? Will you also roll over and beg if she asks?”

“Try again. No no no, eyes up, eyes up! When you bow to someone you look at them, not at the floor. Don't look at her in the eye though lad, that's rude. And not THERE, either.”

“Look into my eyes, and you will see me there--all, all that is in my heart.' 'Oh, I know what I should see there!'...'What would you see? Tell me?' 'There is a little black ball in the middle of your eye; I should see myself in it no bigger than that,' and she marked off about an eighth of her little finger-nail. 'There is a pool in the wood, and I look down and see myself there. That is better. Just as large as I am--not small and black like a small, small fly.”