He could see beauty where Doris saw it. It surrounded him, leaped to
his eye whenever his eye turned,--a beauty of woods and waters, of
rugged hills and sapphire skies. And he was suddenly filled with a
great gladness that he could respond to this. He was quickened to a
strange emotion by the thought that life could still hold for him so
much that seemed good. He put one arm caressingly, protectingly,
across his wife's shoulder, over the smooth, firm flesh that gleamed
through thin silk.
She turned swiftly, buried her face against his breast and burst into
tears, into a strange fit of sobbing. She clung to him like a
frightened child. Her body quivered as if some unseen force grasped
and shook her with uncontrollable power. Hollister held her fast,
dismayed, startled, wondering, at a loss to comfort her.
"But I _can't_ see it," she cried. "I'll never see it again. Oh, Bob,
Bob! Sometimes I can't stand this blackness. Never to see you--never
to see the sun or the stars--never to see the hills, the trees, the
grass. Always to grope.
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