In a moment of hysterical agitation--and in sheer despair of knowing who else to confide in--the poor, foolish, blind, lonely girl had opened her heart to me.

What was I to do?
If the case had been an ordinary one, the whole affair would have been simply ridiculous.
But the case of Lucilla was not the case of girls in general.
The minds of the blind are, by cruel necessity, forced inward on themselves.

They live apart from us--ah, how hopelessly far apart!--in their own dark sphere, of which we know nothing.

What relief could come to Lucilla from the world outside?
None! It was part of her desolate liberty to be free to dwell unremittingly on the ideal creature of her own dream.

Within the narrow limit of the one impression that it had been possible for her to derive of this man--the impression of the beauty of his voice--her fancy was left to work unrestrained in the changeless darkness of her life.