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In the surrounding of dark things put in motion, which was the only
impression made on her by reality; in the uneasy stagnation of a
creature, always passive, yet always on the watch for possible evil; in
the sensation of being ever defenceless, which is the life of the
blind--she felt Gwynplaine above her; Gwynplaine never cold, never
absent, never obscured; Gwynplaine sympathetic, helpful, and
sweet-tempered. Dea quivered with certainty and gratitude, her anxiety
changed into ecstasy, and with her shadowy eyes she contemplated on the
zenith from the depth of her abyss the rich light of his goodness. In
the ideal, kindness is the sun; and Gwynplaine dazzled Dea.
To the crowd, which has too many heads to have a thought, and too many
eyes to have a sight--to the crowd who, superficial themselves, judge
only of the surface, Gwynplaine was a clown, a merry-andrew, a
mountebank, a creature grotesque, a little more and a little less than a
beast. The crowd knew only the face.
For Dea, Gwynplaine was the saviour, who had gathered her into his arms
in the tomb, and borne her out of it; the consoler, who made life
tolerable; the liberator, whose hand, holding her own, guided her
through that labyrinth called blindness. Gwynplaine was her brother,
friend, guide, support; the personification of heavenly power; the
husband, winged and resplendent. Where the multitude saw the monster,
Dea recognized the archangel. It was that Dea, blind, perceived his
soul.
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