It was
all, practically, Lee Randon reflected, as it had been before and would
be again. How few things, out of a worldful, the ordinary individual
saw, saw--that was--to comprehend, to experience: a limited number of
interiors, certain roads and streets, fields and views. He made his way
through life blinded to the customary and unaware of the strange;
summer was hot and winter, usually, cold; the spring became green under
rain; winds blew and the leaves fell in fall--of how much more was he
conscious?
It was the same with regard to people; he, Lee Randon, knew a great
many, or rather, he could repeat their names, recognize their
superficial features at sight. But to say that he actually knew them--
that was nonsense! Why, he was almost totally ignorant of himself. How
much could he explain of Fanny's late state of mind? She had done all
that was possible to make it clear to him; with little result. Fanny
was an extraordinarily honest person; or, damn it, she seemed to be. He
had a reputation for truthfulness; but how much of what was in his mind
would he admit to his wife? The discrepancy between what he appeared
and what he felt himself to be, what he thought and what published, was
enormous, astounding.
There, as well, was Peyton Morris; Lee would have sworn that he
understood him thoroughly--a character as simple, as obvious as
Fanny's.
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