claws or not, I have not yet noticed.”
“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.