. 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. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. Prudence was the substance and Angelina the shadow; for Angelina never offered opinions, she only agreed with those advanced by Prudence. ‘He destroyed the papers?’ ‘That’s right,’ Roding said, throwing her a glance of frowning surprise, as if he had not rated her intelligence so high. The doctor drew out the contents hopefully. ‘Who’s this, then? Not soldiers again. ” “A little pit!” said Ann Veronica; “a little prison!” “It’s just as often a little refuge.
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