Even when I was a young girl, they only looked at my chest, not my face.

And I couldn't help wondering, how many of them were looking at her chest?

He slid the blanket down and looked at her chest.

He opened the shirt the French doctor had given him and looked at his chest.

Then he opened the child's soiled clothes and looked at his chest.

It was all he could do not to look at her chest.

She found herself looking at his chest rather than his face.

But no, she was really looking at his chest and arms.

I looked at my chest but of course saw nothing.

I could just feel him trying not to look at my chest.