“On this arm, I have neither hand nor nails,” he said, drawing the mutilated limb from his breast, and showing it to me. “It is a mere stump⁠—a ghastly sight! Don’t you think so, Jane?”

“It is a pity to see it; and a pity to see your eyes⁠—and the scar of fire on your forehead: and the worst of it is, one is in danger of loving you too well for all this; and making too much of you.”

“I thought you would be revolted, Jane, when you saw my arm, and my cicatrised visage.”

“Did you? Don’t tell me so⁠—lest I should say something disparaging to your judgment. Now, let me leave you an instant, to make a better fire, and have the hearth swept up. Can you tell when there is a good fire?”

“Yes; with the right eye I see a glow⁠—a ruddy haze.”

“And you see the candles?”

“Very dimly⁠—each is a luminous cloud.”