But he did not expend much thought on mere generalizations. The
problem of Myra and her lovers was no longer his problem; their
passions and pains were not his. Hollister understood very clearly
that he had escaped an action that might have had far-reaching
consequences. He was concerned with his escape and also with the
possible recurrence of that strange obsession, or mood, or madness, or
whatever it was that had so warped his normal outlook that he could
harbor such thoughts and plan such deeds. He did not want to pass
through that furnace again.
He had had enough of the Toba Valley. No, he modified that. The valley
and the sentinel peaks that stood guard over it, the lowlands duskily
green and full of balsamy odors from the forest, was still a goodly
place to be. But old sins and sorrows and new, disturbing phases of
human passion were here at his elbow to dispel the restful peace he
had won for a little while. He must escape from that.
To go was not so simple as his coming. The river was frozen, that
watery highway closed. But he solved the problem by knowledge gained
in those casual wanderings along the ridge above the valley.
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