"
He felt his voice cracked and harsh.
"Ah," she breathed. Her eyes turned to the baby sprawling on his
quilt.
Myra rose to her feet. She picked up the baby, moved swiftly and
noiselessly three steps aside, stood holding the boy in her arms.
"You have picked up baby. You have on a dress with light and dark
stripes. I can see--I can see."
Her voice rose exultantly on the last word. Hollister looked at Myra;
she held the boy pressed close to her breast. Her lips were parted,
her pansy-purple eyes were wide and full of alarm as she looked at
Hollister.
He felt his scarred face grow white. And when Doris turned toward him
to bend forward and look at him with that strange, peering gaze, he
covered his face with his hands.
CHAPTER XVII
"Everything is indistinct, just blurred outlines. I can't see colors
only as light and dark," Doris went on, looking at Hollister with that
straining effort to see. "I can only see you now as a vague form
without any detail."
Hollister pulled himself together. After all, it was no catastrophe,
no thunderbolt of fate striking him a fatal blow.
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