272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. If only—Anna, tell me,” she broke off suddenly, “how did you get to know Mr. His interest was divided: while his ears drank in the sounds, his glance constantly roved from Ruth to the performer and back to Ruth.
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