Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. You had better let me go again. “We suspect that Mary is alive, and we think she will try to contact you if she ever tracks you down. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. I want to know what you are doing; how you think this work of yours really does serve women. A nurse came hurrying up. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer.
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