Doris'
skin was like a child's, smooth and soft and tinted like a rose petal.
Love, he said to himself, had made her bloom. It made him quake to
think that she might suddenly see out of those dear, blind eyes. Would
she look and shudder and turn away? He shook off that ghastly thought.
She would never see him. She could only touch him, feel him, hear the
tenderness of his voice, know his guarding care. And to those things
which were realities she would always respond with an intensity that
thrilled him and gladdened him and made him feel that life was good.
"Are you glad you're here?" he asked suddenly.
"I would pinch you for such a silly question if it weren't that I
would probably upset the canoe," Doris laughed. "Glad?"
"There must be quite a streak of pure barbarian in me," she said after
a while. "I love the smell of the earth and the sea and the woods.
Even when I could see, I never cared a lot for town. It would be all
right for awhile, then I would revolt against the noise, the dirt and
smoke, the miles and miles of houses rubbing shoulders against each
other, and all the thousands of people scuttling back and forth,
like--well, it seems sometimes almost as aimless as the scurrying of
ants when you step on their hill.
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