But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. ” She side-stepped into his living room from behind a square white column. "You'll not forget the thousand, Sir Rowland—short accounts, you know. 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 captain grasped her more firmly. She so wanted to keep her memory of him fresh, so wanted to memorize his kisses and to conjure his embrace someday when he was mere dust in the ground. ” “Okay.
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