272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. ‘Your niece, ma’am. “It’s about forty pounds. Paintings sold off the walls. Her concluding paragraph was, on the whole, perhaps, hardly starchy enough. ” Her eyes were lit with humour. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. He had something across his knees.
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