He put aside the writing he was doing on his own book. Bilbo had decided to tell his story in much the same way he had told it to the children of the Shire-- as though it were a tale happening to someone else, in fact. He had made up his mind to tell his own story in a much less intimate style than his uncle had employed. He was not sure he could bring himself to bare so much of his soul, even if only to parchment. Hildifons had written, Bilbo thought, to purge himself of his feelings and not so much with the idea that they might be read by other eyes.

What if he himself had been injured more seriously on his own Adventure? What if he had ended up permanently maimed? Would he have been able to bring himself to go back to the Shire? Somehow he doubted it. The gossip and speculation had been bad enough when he had come home hale and healthy. His only loss had been that of his respectability, and while it had stung somewhat at the time, he had felt it a fair exchange for the experiences he had in the Wide World, and the friends he had made.

The truth was that while he had often thought in those days that he might be killed-- by trolls, by goblins, by wolves or fire, by spiders, by a Dragon-- it had never once crossed his mind that he might somehow get permanently maimed! He looked down at his own feet, covered in thick silvery curls, and tried to imagine what Trotter had seen. He shuddered. While it was not much spoken of, a hobbit's vanity was often his feet. A fine foot was much admired, and a crippled one would be looked upon with revulsion and pity, possibly even scorn.

While he never deceived himself that he would ever return to the Shire now at his age, there was always the knowledge that if he did, he could. What would it be like to believe that he was cut off forever, too wounded to enjoy the beauties of his homeland or the warmth of his family?