What are scars? Nothing, nothing. I can't see them. It wouldn't
make any difference if I could."
"It would," he muttered. "I'm afraid it would."
Doris shook her head. She looked up at him, with that peculiarly
direct, intent gaze which always gave him the impression that she did
see. Her eyes, the soft gray of a summer rain cloud--no one would have
guessed them sightless. They seemed to see, to be expressive, to glow
and soften.
She lifted a hand to Hollister's face. He did not shrink while those
soft fingers went exploring the devastation wrought by the exploding
shell. They touched caressingly the scarred and vivid flesh. And they
finished with a gentle pat on his cheek and a momentary, kittenish
rumpling of his hair.
"I cannot find so very much amiss," she said. "Your nose is a bit
awry, and there is a hollow in one cheek. I can feel scars. What does
it matter? A man is what he thinks and feels and does. I am the maimed
one, really. There is so much I can't do, Bob. You don't realize it
yet. And we won't always be living this way, sitting idle on the
beach, going to a show, having tea in the Granada.
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