He scratched his upper lip reflectively. . ’ ‘Indeed, I’m beginning to think so,’ he said ruefully. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart. “You heard no pistol-shot?” “None. I could tell it was Italian, you see. This is your moment. Felix.
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