It was a prop to his soul--or was it, he
asked himself, merely his vanity?--that Myra could look behind the
grimness of his features and dwell fondly on the essential man, on the
reality behind that dreadful mask.
Still, Hollister knew that to be only a mood, that unexpected
tenderness for a woman whom he had hated for betraying him. It was
Doris he wanted. The thought of her passing out of his life rested
upon him like an intolerable burden. To be in doubt of her afflicted
him with anguish. That the fires of her affection might dwindle and
die before daily sight of him loomed before Hollister as the
consummation of disaster,--and he seemed to feel that hovering near,
closely impending.
That they had lived together sixteen months did not count. That she
had borne him a child,--neither did that count. That she had pillowed
her brown head nightly in the crook of his arm--that he had bestowed a
thousand kisses on her lips, her hair, her neck--that she had lain
beside him hour after hour through the long nights, drowsily
content--none of these intimacies counted beside vision.
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