Morgan's face is a stark lily on black polished lava; sculpted with an ancient quality - like a tranquil carved relief gazing from a silent corner of a temple: you desperately want to stroke, to touch, but daren't. A pearl suspended in swirling oil; something imminently disappearing.
People who assume assume her quiet exterior houses a serene oriental calm. People who know know it's the slate face of grit and determination.
Inexpression rarely results from stupidity; the converse is true - only the highly intelligent can master so much control. Morgan prefers to observe, but when she must, she acts with the sudden ferocity of an alligator ambush.
One of the disadvantages of being beautiful, we have decided, is that one's behaviour is almost always contrary to assumption and expectation. And as substance is not equated with beauty, the lesser-minded fail to recognise being toyed with. Which spoils the fun.
