The girl moved
slightly. A hand-bag slipped from under her arm to the deck. She
half-turned, seemed to hesitate. Instinctively, as a matter of common
courtesy to a woman, Hollister took a step forward, picked it up.
Quite as instinctively he braced himself, so to speak, for the shocked
look that would gather like a shadow on her piquant face.
But it did not come. The girl's gaze bore imperturbably upon him as he
restored the hand-bag to her hand. The faintest sort of smile lurked
about the corners of a pretty mouth. Her eyes were a cloudy gray. They
seemed to look out at the world with a curious impassivity. That much
Hollister saw in a fleeting glance.
"Thanks, very much," she said pleasantly.
Hollister resumed his post against the rail. His movement had brought
him nearer, so that he stood now within arm's length, and his interest
in her had awakened, become suddenly intense. He felt a queer
thankfulness, a warm inward gratefulness, that she had been able to
regard his disfigurement unmoved. He wondered how she could. For
months he had encountered women's averted faces, the reluctant glances
of mingled pity and distaste which he had schooled himself to expect
and endure but which he never ceased to resent.
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