272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. There are no funerals among the poor, only burials. Diving towards it, he tried to press against the rivulet that was seeping from it, hampered mightily by Melusine’s fingers, which were grasping at his other hand. She made a few protests, a few excuses for her action in accepting him, a few lame explanations, but he did not heed them or care for them. No one is safe. Lucy acted the part of savoring the end of the meal, but it was difficult.
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