“I will not ask you to explain further. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. “You are their friend, then?” “I am,” Courtlaw answered. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. The life with which he had endued these sheets of paper began to beckon imperiously.
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