She moved a little nearer to him. “These clothes are French, and I’m sure this floppy bow would make a Frenchman of me anyhow. 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. The thought had not even occurred to him. ‘That’s what started the fracas,’ Gerald admitted ruefully, nursing his injured hand as he recalled it. \" She handed the ticket seller, a boy that looked to be all of eighteen years old, murder money that she had stolen from Dawn Plote's dead son, five dollars.
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