272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. Good night!" "Well, if you won't be persuaded, and must have a boat, Owen," observed the landlord, "there's a waterman asleep on that bench will help you to as tidy a craft as any on the Thames. When I've had an hour's rest, I'll be after Blueskin. "Don't scourge me," she cried, trying to hide herself in the farthest corner of the cell. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture.
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