He wondered if Myra knew of her husband's
borrowing. If she had any inkling of the truth, how would she feel?
For he knew that Myra was proud, sensitive, independent in spirit far
beyond her capacity for actual independence. If she even suspected his
identity, the borrowing of that money would surely sting her. But
Hollister put that notion aside.
For a long time Myra had ceased to trouble him with the irritating
uncertainty of their first meetings. She apparently accepted him and
his mutilated face as part of Doris Hollister's background and gave
him no more thought or attention. Always in the little gatherings at
his house Hollister contrived to keep in the shadow, to be an onlooker
rather than a participant,--just as Charlie Mills did. Hollister was
still sensitive about his face. He was doubly sensitive because he
dreaded any comment upon his disfigurement reaching his wife's ears.
He had succeeded so well in thus effacing himself that Myra seemed to
regard him as if he were no more than a grotesque bit of furniture to
which she had become accustomed.
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