I can't invent; the thing won't come. Gianfrancesco became agitated. The Bitchster strikes again. 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. You don’t know. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. It was a habit of his to talk to himself.
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