Wood, and you'll find that I've spoken the truth. 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. He looked like an animated skeleton that someone had hung a smelly 105 brown beard upon. Guiding this man of hers over the troubled sea of life had engraved these lines. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig.
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