Anna nodded as she briskly crossed the pavement. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. Please don’t let any one know that. She was to be handed over with her dowry of three thousand Florins, plus her pet bird, six chickens, her mother’s fine linens, a small book of poetry. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness.
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