We have only those phantoms called memories, which are the husks of dreams. This lover of yours—” “He doesn’t know!” cried Ann Veronica. ” She closed her mouth. Then she spoke, with a carelessness he instantly suspected. 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.
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