272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation. She was shifting, moving back. A day will come when you will thank me. “Then you—you will?” A long pause. She rose to the fire to stoke it. One keeps rules in order to be one’s self. I undid his coat, and I took it from his pocket.
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