Still, here we are in this dingy, foggy city. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. You made that thing?” “From a kit. Paris, 18. ’ Taken aback, Gerald let out a short laugh. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. “I’ve been thinking of you all night,” she answered. A male voice, vibrant with terror, yelled out hoarsely. ’ ‘You little fiend,’ exclaimed Gerald wrathfully. ‘You have something more to tell me?’ Jack grinned.
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