272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being. By the side of her plate was a small key. "'Faith, an' you may say that," returned a watchman, who was wiping a ruddy stream from his brow; "they've broken the paice, and our pates into the bargain. ‘Marry an Englishman! Which Englishman?’ Melusine shrugged. Heliers.
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