Behind those black eyes he knew every thought process.

It was like clockwork.
He could watch every wheel go around.

Their bid was low pleasure, narrow as the grave, that palled, and the grave was at the end of it.

But the bid of the saint's eyes was mystery, and wonder unthinkable, and eternal life.

He had caught glimpses of the soul in them, and glimpses of his own soul, too.
"There's only one thing wrong with the programme," he said aloud.