When I saw her this thought came to me again. She was walking towards me, a perfect blonde with long hair flowing onto her shoulders, just a little lower than me, with well marked, round breasts visible under a white blouse and a face, as perfect as her body, symmetric, smooth. Her eyes, blue-gray, just like mine, were looking through me as though I didn’t exist, while a hardly noticeable half smile twisted her perfect lips into an expression of princely superiority and indifference to a mere mortal whose presence she had to politely endure for this brief, unpleasant moment.

Yeah, I thought again, is there a ghost in this shell? Is there, beneath that superficial pose, a mind that could withstand five minutes of real conversation? Is it really so that external beauty precludes internal depth and goodness? Or is it just my karma playing tricks on me?