Hollister noted the expression on the man's face when their eyes met.
But he did not mind. He was used to that. He was becoming indifferent
to what people thought of his face, because what they thought no
longer had power to hurt him, to make him feel that sickening
depression, to make him feel himself kin to those sinners who were
thrust into the outer darkness. Moreover, he knew that some people
grew used to the wreckage of his features. That had been his
experience with his two woodsmen. At first they looked at him askance.
Now they seemed as indifferent to his disfigurement as they were to
the ragged knots and old fire-scars on the trees they felled. Anyway,
it did not matter to Hollister.
But this fair-haired man went on talking, looking all the while at
Hollister, and his look seemed to say, "I know your face is a hell of
a sight, but I am not disturbed by it, and I don't want you to think I
am disturbed." Behind the ragged mask of his scars Hollister smiled at
this fancy. Nevertheless he accepted his interpretation of that look
as a reality and found himself moved by a curious feeling of
friendliness for this stranger whom he had never seen before, whom he
might never see again,--for that was the way of casual travelers up
and down the Toba.
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