Lawanne once said to him that a man must worship a God, love a woman,
or find a real friendship, to make life endurable. God was too dim,
too nebulous, for Hollister's need. Friendship was almost
unattainable. How could a man with a face so mutilated that it was
grotesque, repellent, cultivate the delicate flower of friendship?
Doris loved him because she could not see him. When she could see, she
would cease to love. And there would be nothing left for
him--nothing. He would live on, obedient to the law of his being, a
sentient organism, eating and sleeping, thinking starkly, without joy
in the reluctant company of his fellows, his footsteps echoing
hollowly down the long corridor of the years, emptied of hope and all
those pleasant illusions by which man's spirit is sustained. But would
he? Would it be worth while?
"I must go back to work," he said at last.
Doris rose with him, holding him a moment.
"Presently I shall be able to come and _watch_ you work! I might help.
I know how to walk boom-sticks, to handle timber with a pike pole.
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