He lived alone in a cottage, and he was angry because he was blind. He wore black glasses over his two blind eyes, and the children did not like these. So they were afraid of him, and the rudest of them called names after him, which was very unkind of them. The man had always had weak eyes, but he had been so fond of reading that he had made them worse and worse. Now he couldn't see at all, and he was unhappy and angry. Angry because he knew that if only he had been wise, he would still have been able to see—and unhappy because he wanted to read, and couldn't, and because he had no friends. People would have liked to be kind to him, but he wouldn't let them. He was bad-tempered, spiteful, and very, very lonely. His face grew uglier and uglier as he frowned more and more, and his black glasses seemed even blacker. He used to go along the road of the town, tapping with his stick, and muttering to himself as he went, "It isn't fair.
