Then he led her into the house and smiled--or would have
smiled had his face been capable of that expression--at the pleasure
with which her hands, which she had trained to be her organs of
vision, sought and found doors and cupboards, chairs, the varied
equipment of the kitchen. He watched her find her way about with the
uncanny certainty of the sightless, at which he never ceased to
marvel. When she came back at last to where he sat on a table,
swinging one foot while he smoked a cigarette, she put her arms around
him and said:
"It's a cute little house, Bob. The air here is like old wine. The
smell of the woods is like heaven, after soot and smoke and coal gas.
I'm the happiest woman in the whole country."
Hollister looked at her. He knew by the glow on her face that she
spoke as she felt, that she was happy, that he had made her so. And he
was proud of himself for a minute, as a man becomes when he is
conscious of having achieved greatness, however briefly.
Only he was aware of a shadow. Doris leaned against him talking of
things they would do, of days to come.
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