Now and then he asked Mills down to supper out of pity for the
man's complete isolation. Some chord in Hollister vibrated in sympathy
with this youngster who kept his teeth so resolutely clenched on
whatever hurt him.
And while Hollister watched Mills and wondered how long that effort at
repression would last, he became conscious that Myra was watching
_him_, puzzling over him; that something about him attracted and
repulsed her in equal proportions. It was a disturbing discovery. Myra
could study him with impunity. Doris could not see this scrutiny of
her husband by her neighbor. And Myra did not seem to care what
Hollister saw. She would look frankly at him with a question in her
eyes. What that question might be, Hollister refused even to consider.
She never again made any remark to Doris about her first husband,
about the similarity of name. But now and then she would speak of
something that happened when she was a girl, some casual reference to
the first days of the war, to her life in London, and her eyes would
turn to Hollister.
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