Amid a litter of nails without heads, screws without worms, and locks without wards, lay a glue-pot and an oilstone, two articles which their owner was wont to term "his right hand and his left. Only I am not an acquaintance at all. 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 edged sideways a little more, her eyes on the pistol in his hand. “One moment, if you please!” She stopped short and looked round. “She finds lying up so much very irksome.
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