"Ah! Owen Wood, is it you?" cried David in astonishment. She was noisy and hilarious and enthusiastic, and her hair was always abominably done. Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings. " "Then this is not my child?" exclaimed she, with increased astonishment. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. The letter will explain all. Did you know you’re very maternal? Damn, you’re more maternal than my Mom. He became really companionable, discussed the new story he had in mind, and asked some questions about colour.
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