His breath grew shallower as he approached the room, conscious of the loudness of his hallway-reverberated footfalls. 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. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. The stores, the drying bins, McClintock's bungalows and the native huts sprawled around an exquisite landlocked lagoon. Kneebone said, just now.
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