And there is a kind of confession in your looks, which your modesties have not craft enough to color.

I wish I could call people on their stuff as well as Hamlet. I see a great deal more than I can ever say. I catch people lying. I see people hiding. I see exactly what they really meant. But I rarely say anything. I just note it and move on. On the occasions that I say something, when I catch someone out, they will often call me a mind-reader. But I don’t read minds. I read bodies. I see the confessions in the muscles and contortions of the face.

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