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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. “I had no idea that it was so abominably late. ’ Roding started. And it filled seven sheets of notepaper, each written only on one side. If you talk of your faults, I shall talk of your splendors. She would never again be lonely. Few men could have done as much. She was no longer there. " "Not necessarily. .
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