272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. ‘You are the one that I have met in London. She was, she guessed, close to the library. What a pig she was. "A mother's prayers—a mother's blessings," she cried, with the fervour almost of inspiration, "will avail against a fiend's malice. The family always managed to make it home for supper, even though it was a dying custom. ‘Never. She became at times an embodiment for Ann Veronica of all that made the suffrage movement defective and unsatisfying. She had money of her own—much more than I have—and there was no need to squabble about that. Due to play hockey. The afternoon was her own; but from eight until midnight she sat beside the patient.
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