272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. He would never be able to compose upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work. The open windows were above them now and, unless the intruder were to lean out, they could not possibly be seen. ‘What would you do in Valade’s place?’ ‘You mean, knowing that the girl was here and liable to queer my pitch?’ ‘Precisely.
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