Checkmate by Guy De Maupassant — Read

I was going to Turin by way of Corsica. At Nice I took ship for Bastia, and as soon as we were out at sea I saw a charming, quietly dressed young woman sitting on the bridge: she was looking out to sea. "Ah," I said to myself, "there's my friend for the voyage."

I took a seat opposite her and looked at her, my mind filled with the questions that leap into any man's mind when he sees an unknown and interesting woman: what was her class, her age, what sort of a woman was she? Then, from what he can see, he speculates on what he can't see. Eye and mind peer through the bodice and under the gown. He observes the line of the bust when she is seated: he tries to catch a glimpse of her ankle: he notes the texture of her hand, which reveals the fineness of the rest of her limbs, and the shape and size of her ear, which is a truer indication of birth than a birth certificate, that must always be open to dispute. He tries to hear her speak, to get at the character of her mind and the tenderness of her heart through the tones of her voice. For, to the experience observer, the pitch and all the subtle gradations of the spoken word reveal the mysterious structure of the soul: difficult though it may be to grasp it, there is always perfect accord between thought itself and the organ of its expression.