She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. Her fingers opened and the weapon fell from her nerveless grasp. I said intensity of perception. 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 drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street.
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