On a bench at the foot of the trees, with a pipe in his mouth, and a tankard by his side, sat the worthy carpenter, looking the picture of good-heartedness and benevolence. “You heard no pistol-shot?” “None. 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 had reacted by pushing her away, disgust and frustration on his face. The father, granite; the daughter, fire: Spurlock saw the one and heard the other, his amazement indescribable.
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