I next proceeded to Jenny Bunch's, the Ship, in Trig Lane—there I got the same answer. 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. He was certain that those lips of hers had never known the natural and pardonable simper of youth. Five minutes ago, his butler had entered the green saloon, an austere apartment, with dark forest-green wallpaper flocked with a swirling design, and heavy mahogany furniture. He saw the colossal selfishness of his act; but he could not beg off on the plea of abnormality.
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