"I cannot believe it.

I supposed that you and my uncle were friends.

What has happened?
Tell me if you can--if you wish.
Let me touch your hand," and as she held out her hands, I gladly grasped them.
I have never seen anything more beautiful than Madge Stanley's hands.

They were not small, but their shape, from the fair, round forearm and wrist to the ends of the fingers was worthy of a sculptor's dream.

Beyond their physical beauty there was an expression in them which would have belonged to her eyes had she possessed the sense of sight.