He could not associate those wide gray eyes
with total darkness. He could scarcely make himself comprehend a world
devoid of light and color, an existence in which one felt and breathed
and had being amid eternal darkness. Yet for the moment he was selfish
enough to feel glad. And he said so, with uncharacteristic
impulsiveness.
"I'm glad you can't see," he found himself saying. "If you could----"
"What a queer thing to say," the girl interrupted. "I thought every
one always regarded a blind person as an object of pity."
There was an unmistakably sardonic inflection in the last sentence.
"But you don't find it so, eh?" Hollister questioned eagerly. He was
sure he had interpreted that inflection. "And you sometimes resent
that attitude, eh?"
"I daresay I do," the girl replied, after a moment's consideration.
"To be unable to see is a handicap. At the same time to have pity
drooled all over one is sometimes irritating. But why did you just say
you were glad I was blind?"
"I didn't mean that. I meant that I was glad you couldn't see _me_,"
he explained.
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