272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. “Do I understand you then to refuse my offer?” he asked Anna. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. "Don't scourge me," she cried, trying to hide herself in the farthest corner of the cell. "Come here," said the petticoated tyrant. And if she was ever found living in the area like that, homeless, John could somehow find out.
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