"I'm glad, too," Ann said.
I tried to see her, but my eyes were full of tears.
"I'll show him his room," Ann said.
When the door was closed on us, she threw her arms about my neck and cried as I had never seen a woman cry.
"Oh! beloved," she sobbed. "I'm so glad. I was afraid—afraid you were going to be blind."
She had always been so cheerful, so professional, about my case—of course it would turn out all right—that I had not seen it from her point of view. It was a revelation to me that her bravery had been a sham.
"Oh. I was afraid—afraid!"
I tried to comfort her but all the pent-up worry and fear of weeks had broken out. And I had not realized that her love had made my risk a personal tragedy for her.
When she had quieted a little, I wanted her to stand away so that I might look at her. But no—she said—she did not want me to see her first when her eyes were swollen with tears. She clung to me tightly and would not show me her face.
There was a knock at the door. I had not lived long enough to realize the seriousness of a woman's wet eyes, and, without thought of this, I said, "Come in." It was Benson.