“We’re here to take your foster daughter down to the station to ask her a few questions sir. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. It was as if he could smell it on her. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. She flew up the covered stairs and knocked upon his door. Hastening in the direction of the sound, he discovered Thames Darrell, stretched upon the ground. How the deuce did I ever manage to father such a brainless nincompoop? A nun, for God’s sake! A confounded Catholic nun. I don’t care WHAT happens.
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