And she was blind.
All the way across the Middle West, across the great plains, Mary Warren had been able to see somewhat.

Perhaps it was the knitting--hour after hour of it, in spite of all, done in sheer self-defense.

But at the western edge of the great Plains, it had come--what she had dreaded.

Both eyes were gone! Since then she had not seen at all, and having in mind her long warning, accepted her blindness as a permanent thing.
She passed now through a world of blackness.

She could not see the man who had written those letters to her.