Closed within, the would-be terrorist plumbs Franchone perchance to analyze his character, sound it with her heart as if their pulse had overlapped. She takes a step in his direction, pauses, looks first at then past him... to the lamp-lit table and chairs... to where the stock-still manikin sits... and to the articles disinterred from her left-untended luggage.
Her tone is hostile, of a sudden. She indicts him with a look.
She reclaims it, holds it tightly to her bosom.
Upon his use of Zahra's given name, she bristles, feels exposed, becomes self-conscious, once again, of her attire divulging forms that are immodest in the presence of a man neither kith nor kin, moreover one who seeks to meddle beyond his understanding.