"One of Fritz's shells tore my face to pieces. People
don't like to look at the result. Women particularly. You can't see my
wrecked face, so you don't shudder and pass on. I suppose that is why
I said that the way I did."
"I see. You feel a little bit glad to come across some one who doesn't
know whether your face is straight or crooked? Some one who accepts
you sight unseen, as she would any man who spoke and acted
courteously? Is that it?"
"Yes," Hollister admitted. "That's about it."
"But your friends and relatives?" she suggested softly.
"I have no relatives in this country," he said. "And I have no friends
anywhere, now."
She considered this a moment, rubbing her cheek with a gloved
forefinger. What was she thinking about, Hollister wondered?
"That must be rather terrible at times. I'm not much given to slopping
over, but I find myself feeling sorry for you--and you are only a
disembodied voice. Your fix is something like my own," she said at
last. "And I have always denied that misery loves company."
"You were right in that, too," Hollister replied.
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