All the sense of sinister
possibilities in her presence, all that uneasy dread of her nearness,
that consciousness of her as an impending threat, had finally come to
seem nothing more than mere figments of his imagination. Especially
since their son was born. That seemed to establish the final bond
between himself and Doris. Myra, the past which so poignantly included
Myra, held less and less significance. He could look at Myra and
wonder if this _was_ the same woman he had held in his arms, whose
kisses had been freely and gladly bestowed upon him; if all the
passion and pain of their life together, of their tearing apart, had
ever really been. He had got so far beyond that it seemed unreal. And
lately there had settled upon him a surety that to Myra it must all be
just as unreal--that she could not possibly harbor any suspicion that
he was her legal husband, hiding behind a mask of scars--and that
even if she did suspect, that suspicion could never be translated into
action which could deflect ever so slightly the current of his present
existence.
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