272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. "Devilish strange!" thought he, chuckling to himself; "queer business! Capital trick of the cull in the cloak to make another person's brat stand the brunt for his own—capital! ha! ha! Won't do, though. “You are the most perfect, the most glorious of created things—tender, frank intellectual, brave, beautiful. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am. ‘She didn’t behave in the least like an émigré, if these people are anything to go by. I sent my check for ten thousand; and it has cost me six thousand to find you. She is in the hall now. ‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound. Does it?” “I think it does. But now confound it! how can you prevent it? I will kiss you.
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