"You see," he said to her, "one can get used to blindness and take it as
the natural thing. But one does not get used to you, Ethne. Each time
one meets you, one discovers something new and fresh to delight one.
Besides, there is always the possibility of a cure."
He had his reward, for Ethne understood that he had laid aside his
suspicions, and she was able to set off his indefatigable cheerfulness
against her own misery. And her misery was great. If for one day she had
recaptured the lightness of heart which had been hers before the three
white feathers came to Ramelton, she had now recaptured something of the
grief which followed upon their coming. A difference there was, of
course. Her pride was restored, and she had a faint hope born of
Durrance's words that Harry after all might perhaps be rescued. But she
knew again the long and sleepless nights and the dull hot misery of the
head as she waited for the grey of the morning. For she could no longer
pretend to herself that she looked upon Harry Feversham as a friend who
was dead. He was living, and in what straits she dreaded to think, and
yet thirsted to know. At rare times, indeed, her impatience got the
better of her will.
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