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I hate what I am. ‘Lord,’ Gerald uttered, his inexplicable annoyance evaporating. Though there is something to be said for your idea of a secret convent, at least as a hiding place. Pearls in the dawn light, flashing and burning! "You don't like your island?" "I hate it!… But, there!"—weariness edging in. “Your home is very. That dress is thirty years old, if a day. Nuns, I mean. 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.
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