" "You mustn't talk. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. You forget that every one is going to the ‘Unusual’ to see her. “Neither Sydney nor I would think of such a thing. ‘Me, I am tout à fait stupide. " "My dear," observed Wood, "you should be more charitable—" "Charitable!" repeated his wife, "that's your constant cry. She pointed suddenly at the portrait. Thunder rumbled behind the manicured hills. .
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