272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. ‘You knew her well, Miss Mary?’ Mrs Ibstock turned at the window. But his astonishment would have been great indeed had he known that not even her father had ever caressed her, either with lips or with hands. To have spoken lightly on such a subject a few hours ago would have seemed incredible.
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