There was the same airy grace of movement, the same deep brown hair and alabaster skin. 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 candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Under another name,—not my own hateful one,—I will strive to distinguish myself in some foreign service, and win myself a reputation, or perish honourably.
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