That’s my opinion, if you ask me. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. A dozen words, and he saw Enschede as clearly as though he stood hard by in the flesh. I guess they were bad all the time. He stood with his hands in his pockets looking at Miss Klegg’s back. ’ Melusine’s eyes flashed. A couple of gilt straight-backed chairs only.
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