For an instant Langdon recalled the ancient myth of Daedelus, how the boy kept one hand on the wall as he moved through the Minotaur’s labyrinth, knowing he was guaranteed to find the end if he never broke contact with the wall.
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The Labyrinth was built to hold the Minotaur.
She is the minotaur of this long journey back—all those preparations for travel, the journey through Africa, the recent 7-hour train ride from Colombo to Jaffna, the sentries, the high walls of stone, and now this lazy courtesy of meals, tea, her best brandy in the evenings for my bad stomach—the minotaur who inhabits the place one had been years ago, who surprises one with conversations about the original circle of love.