272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. At no time did she feel bodily or mental fatigue. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. ‘Because,’ said Lady Bicknacre in the confidential manner of all matrons when passing on a tidbit of scandal, ‘Nicholas married against his father’s wishes and ran away. ‘Étes-vous Francais?’ Her eyes, he noted, followed from himself to Hilary and back again, but she did not speak. Then her eyes flashed. She dropped the manuscripts and swiftly brought the coat to him, noting that a button hung loose. “I must take them,” she said, to help herself over her own incredulity.
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