"
Myra turned her back on them, walked away and stood on the river bank.
Hollister stared at his wife. He struggled with an old sensation, one
that he had thought long put by,--a sense of the intolerable burden of
existence in which nothing was sure but sorrow. And he was aware that
he must dissemble all such feelings. He must not let Doris know how
he dreaded that hour in which she should first see clearly his
mutilated face.
"You ought to see an oculist," he said at last.
"An oculist? Eye specialists--I saw a dozen of them," she replied.
"They were never able to do anything--except to tell me I would never
see again. A fig for the doctors. They were wrong when they said my
sight was wholly destroyed. They'd probably be wrong again in the
diagnosis and treatment. Nature seems to be doing the job. Let her
have her way."
They discussed that after Myra was gone, sitting on a log together in
the warm sun, with the baby kicking his heels on the spread quilt.
They continued the discussion after they went back to the house.
Hollister dreaded uncertainty.
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