272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. It was better even than the hymn-singing. ‘This is not love, Marthe. “Anna,” he pleaded, “be merciful. I have healed and I am still your wife!\" She looked at him desperately, his eyes illuminated by firelight.
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