The most depressing hours that overtook him were those
in which he visualized her floating away beyond his reach.
To Hollister, as he saw more of her, she seemed the most remarkable
woman he had ever known. Her loss of sight had been more than
compensated by an extraordinary acuteness of mental vision. The world
about her might now be one of darkness, but she had a precise
comprehension of its nature, its manifestations, its complexities. He
had always taken blindness as a synonym for helplessness, a matter of
uncertain groping, of timidities, of despair. He revised that
conclusion sharply in her case. He could not associate the most remote
degree of helplessness with Doris Cleveland when they walked, for
instance, through Stanley Park from English Bay to Second Beach. That
broad path, with the Gulf swell muttering along the bouldery shore on
one side and the wind whispering in the lofty branches of tall trees
on the other, was a favorite haunt of theirs on crisp March days. The
buds of the pussy willow were beginning to burst. Birds twittered in
dusky thickets.
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