The woman turned back, swinging her blind face in their direction.
The blind, rust-caked face turned towards the sound of my voice.
His eyes were fixed on the blind face, watching her intently.
Almost as I had the thought, two windows were lit in that black, blind face.
It turned its blind face toward him and took two halting steps in his direction.
Like a living statue of grief, her blind face cried on.
Soul and sense seemed to be struggling together in her blind face.
The old man was quick; he swung his blind face around, as if searching for the other person.
He who had been the Dark King turned his blind face back and forth.
He glanced over his shoulder at its blind face once again.
