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. My father thought the latter. Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began to practise on it in the night. After class his routine was unchanged. ‘Not kill me, I mean.
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