“No, dear, indeed no!” I cried.
“Then what?”
“Sylvia,” I began, as quietly as I could, “the truth is not as bad as you imagine—”
“Tell me what it is!”
“But it is bad, Sylvia. And you must be brave. You must be, for your baby’s sake.”
“Make haste!” she cried.
“The baby,” I said, “may be blind.”
“Blind!” There we sat, gazing into each other’s eyes, like two statues of women. But the grasp of her hand tightened, until even my big fist was hurt. “Blind!” she whispered again.
“Sylvia,” I rushed on, “it isn’t so bad as it might be! Think—if you had lost her altogether!”
“Blind!”