272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. ’ ‘Do you take me for a fool, Hilary?’ demanded his betrothed. Gray and tranquil world! Amazing, passionless world! A world in which days without meaning, days in which “we don’t want things to happen” followed days without meaning—until the last thing happened, the ultimate, unavoidable, coarse, “disagreeable. He turned to her and pinned her against the headrest with his kisses. “I don’t think I CAN do that,” she said. I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word with a deep look ‘— with one I feel to be a stranger. Nothing to do; nothing for the hands, the mind, the heart. She had lost her nerve, and there was no more freedom in London for her that night. As to this little fellow, in spite of the Dutchman, who, in my opinion, is more of a Jacobite than a conjurer, and more of a knave than either, he shall never mount a horse foaled by an acorn, if I can help it. Besides, she will do no such thing.
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