I couldn't
help seeing myself as a handicap. I could see you beginning to chafe
finally under the burden of a blind wife, growing impatient at my
helplessness--which you do not yet realize--and in the end--oh, well,
one can think all sorts of things in spite of a resolution not to
think."
It stung Hollister.
"Good God," he cried, "you don't realize it's only the fact you
_can't_ see me that makes it possible. Why, I've clutched at you the
way a drowning man clutches at anything. That I should get tired of
you, feel you as a burden--it's unthinkable. I'm thankful you're
blind. I shall always be glad you can't see. If you could--what sort
of picture of me have you in your mind?"
"Perhaps not a very clear one," the girl answered slowly. "But I hear
your voice, and it is a pleasant one. I feel your touch, and there is
something there that moves me in the oddest way. I know that you are a
big man and strong. Of course I don't know whether your eyes are blue
or brown, whether your hair is fair or dark--and I don't care. As for
your face I can't possibly imagine it as terrible, unless you were
angry.
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