His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. But don't suppose, Madam, that anything I say has reference to you. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. He sat down beside her and stroked her hair. I hope I haven't given any unintentional offence?" said the widow, again meekly appealing to Wood. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application.
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