If Doris was happy, full of high spirits, joyfully abandoned to the
fulfilment of her destiny as a woman, Hollister too was happier than
he had considered it possible for him ever to be again. But, in
addition, he was supremely grateful. Life for him as an individual had
seemed to be pretty much a blank wall, a drab, colorless routine of
existence; something he could not voluntarily give up, but which gave
nothing, promised nothing, save monotony and isolation and, in the
end, complete despair. So that his love for this girl, who had given
herself to him with the strangely combined passion of a mature woman
and the trusting confidence of a child, was touched with gratitude.
She had put out her hand and lifted him from the pit. She would always
be near him, a prop and a stay. Sometimes it seemed to Hollister a
miracle. He would look at his face in the mirror and thank God that
she was blind. Doris said that made no difference, but he knew better.
It made a difference to eyes that could see, however tolerantly.
In Hollister, also, there revived the natural ambition to get on, to
grasp a measure of material security, to make money.
Pages:
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167