You will have a bungalow to yourself," continued McClintock, "and your morning meal will be your own affair. 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 infused menace into her voice. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. We’ve done nothing to deserve it. She breathed deeply of the starch of his shirt.
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