“You shall,” she said. “So it’s like you’re a dead end?” He asked innocently. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. And in those days, too, he used to help her mother with her gardening, and hover about her while she stood on the ladder and hammered creepers to the scullery wall. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. He was amused. "I'm never satisfied with a first attempt. She was suddenly grave.
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