Work Text:
“Yes,” said Eugenia Ronder, “the case is closed.”
We had risen to go, but there was something in the woman’s voice which arrested Holmes’ attention. He turned swiftly upon her.
“Your life is of worth,” he said. “Keep your hands off it.”
“What use is it to anyone?”
“Whatever use you make of it,” said Holmes. “Live for yourself, not for what use you may be to others. You said you read—does that not give you, yourself, pleasure? If you wish to work, and I would recommend it, you may write, you may paint, you may study. The loss of your beauty is not the end of your life.”
“It is not merely the loss of my beauty,” said Mrs. Ronder, and she raised her veil and stepped forward into the light. “I wonder if you would bear it.”
I drew back a step, without meaning to, and still regret it. But I gathered my physician’s experience and went no further. Holmes held his ground, and shook his head.
“It is,” he said, to the grisly ruin of a face that stared back at us with still beautiful brown eyes. “You are still human, and still have your mind. You have worth inherent in yourself, despite your suffering. You have lived for seven years here. You can live for seven more—for forty more. For yourself.”