Instinctively we hide our sores, bodily and mental, from the public gaze.
Not long ago I was in a small rustic village in Wiltshire, perhaps the most charming village I have seen in that country.

There was no inn or ale-house, and feeling very thirsty after my long walk I went to a cottage and asked the woman I saw there for a drink of milk.

She invited me in, and spreading a clean cloth on the table, placed a jug of new milk, a loaf, and butter before me.

For these good things she proudly refused to accept payment.

As she was a handsome young woman, with a clear, pleasant voice, I was glad to have her sit there and talk to me while I refreshed myself.