272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. Just then—I was nervous. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. And before Kneebone could draw his sword, he felled him to the ground with the iron bar. Then most horribly she was clasped about the waist from behind and lifted from the ground. We can take our things up with us and stay at the Continental or the Ritz.
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