I'm in a funk," Spurlock confessed. " He drew down the lamp and blew it out, and followed her into the night, more lovely than he had ever imagined night to be. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. Yet he’s been here for six years, and he’s as much a fixture as that sham mahogany sideboard. He began to tell me something—and stopped. His tongue was more ready, his wit more keen than usual. Sudden indignation boiled up in him. It was equally as beautiful but not quite so fine as the daughter's. She advanced, stabbing at him. I must go perhaps in all the rooms.
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