Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. ” “You may be sure of the one,” she murmured. Journeying blindly half way across the world, this man had found his quarry.
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