Ann Veronica’s appearance was brief and undistinguished. He must be more or less of an age with this man. She was slowed down by the icy wind that punctuated itself in screams around houses and trees. In short, every contrivance that ingenuity could devise was resorted to by this horde of reprobates to secure themselves from danger or molestation. To them all I am nothing. If they had any idea the concerts he had seen, they would have known the quality of her playing. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. 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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