" "The ways of Providence are inscrutable," observed Wood. . 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. ” “And he sat at my table,” Annabel said bitterly, “and yet he did not know me. "Strange!" he continued, as if talking to himself. I never saw a man who wasn't. It did not shock her; it amazed her, interested her beyond measure. . More importantly, she had her wits. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances.
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