For a minute
they sat silent. He was thinking how strange it was that he should
meet this girl whose books he had been poring over all these weeks.
She had a mind, he perceived. She could think and express her thoughts
in sentences as clean-cut as her face. She made him think, thrust him
face to face with an abstraction. Blind, blundering, witless Chance!
Was there nothing more than that? What else was there?
"You make me feel ashamed of myself," he said at last. "Your luck has
been worse than mine. Your handicap is greater than mine--at least you
must feel it so. But you don't complain. You even seem quite
philosophic about it. I wish I could cultivate that spirit. What's
your secret?"
"Oh, I'm not such a marvel," she said, and the slight smile came back
to lurk around the corners of her mouth. "There are times when I
rebel--oh, desperately. But I get along very nicely as a general
thing. One accepts the inevitable. I comfort myself with the selfish
reflection that if I can't see a lot that I would dearly love to see,
I am also saved the sight of things that are mean and sordid and
disturbing.
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