He opened the drawer of the writing table. 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. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. ’ ‘That’s fortunate,’ murmured Lucilla.
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