Murder had become nothing to her. She crushed the letter in her hand. But … he must want to live in order that the inclination to repeat this incident may not recur. Something changed for her. Just one thing more. Every girl in the world practically, except a few of us who teach or type-write, and then we’re underpaid and sweated—it’s dreadful to think how we are sweated!” She had lost her generalization, whatever it was. “What he had was altogether insufficient. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Building announced solemnly. 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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