Wood's reply, if he intended any, was cut short by a loud knocking at the door. So he resolved to try another tack. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. He had heard me sing—the fool thought himself in love with me. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness.
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