I could scarcely see the unbandaged half of her
face. She still suffered acute pain, and I was warned that my visit
could only be of brief duration, and that nothing but the simplest
matters could be discussed. I sat down on a chair by the left side of
the bed. Her wonderful nervous hand clung round mine as we talked.
The first thing she said to me, in a weak voice, like the faint echo of
her deep tones, was:
"I'm going to lose all my good looks, Simon, and you won't care to look
at me any more."
She said it so simply, so tenderly, without a hint of reproach in it,
that I almost shouted out my horrible remorse; but I remembered my
injunctions and refrained. I strove to comfort her, telling her mythical
tales of surgical reassurances. She shook her head sadly.
"It was like you to stay in Berlin, Simon," she said, after a while.
"Although they wouldn't let me see you, yet I knew you were within call.
You can't conceive what a comfort it has been."
"How could I leave you, dear," said I, "with the thought of you
throbbing in my head night and day?"
"How did you find me?"
"Through Conto and Blag.
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