Lee felt that he could hardly have
said more. He wondered what Claire had to show him. Still, he wasn't
through with her husband; he had no intention of resting until every
hope was exhausted. What particularly impressed him--he must speak of
it to Peyton--was that no matter where Morris might get he would find
life monotonously the same. It was very much like mountain climbing--
every peak looked different, more iridescent and desirable, from the
one occupied; but, gazing back, that just left appeared as engaging, as
rare, as any in the distance. Every experience in the life surrounding
him was the same as all the others; no real change was offered, because
the same dull response permeated all living; no escape such as Peyton
planned was possible.
Escape, Lee Randon continued, happened within; it was not, he repeated,
a place on earth, or any possession, but a freedom, a state, of mind.
Peyton Morris, while it was quite possible for him to be destroyed, was
incapable of mental liberty, readjustments; he might drive himself on
the rocks, on the first reef where he disregarded the clamor of warning
bells and carefully charted directions, but he was no Columbus for the
discovery of a magical island, a Cuba, of spices and delectable palms.
Peyton had looked with a stolid indifference at the dangerously
fascinating, the incomprehensible, smile of Cytherea.
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