An old man with a bent back who limped in, slow and stiff, leaning heavily on a cane. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. “There’s morbid beauty,” said Ann Veronica. And yet, at the end of this prayer a subconscious thought broke through to consciousness. Prudence shook her head. She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. A girl—at my age—is grown-up. “Suppose you call me by my proper name,” she said quietly. I guess we could go for a ride.
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