You look nervous. Is it the scars? You wanna know how I got them? Come here. Hey. Look at me. So I had a wife. She was beautiful, like you... who tells me I worry too much... who tells me I ought to smile more... who gambles and gets in deep with the sharks. Hey. One day they carve her face. And we have no money for surgeries. She can't take it. I just wanna see her smile again. I just want her to know that I don't care about the scars. So... I stick a razor in my mouth and do this... to myself. And you know what? She can't stand the sight of me. She leaves. Now I see the funny side. Now I'm always smiling.
He smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly.
It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life.
It faced—or seemed to face—the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor.
It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.