So, let's think no more about it. 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. She was to be handed over with her dowry of three thousand Florins, plus her pet bird, six chickens, her mother’s fine linens, a small book of poetry. "Of yourself," he replied, in a mournful tone. “I first saw you crossing the river Arno, after a spring rain had spoiled the day for everyone except the ducks.
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