Me, you may have. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. The one fault, indeed, of this school of fiction for him was that it had rather a light way with parental rights. She gazed with a quiet detachment toward the window and the Oxford Street traffic, and in her heart she was busy kicking this man to death. Wood had the advantage of her husband in point of years, being on the sunny side of forty,—a period pronounced by competent judges to be the most fascinating, and, at the same time, most critical epoch of woman's existence,—whereas, he was on the shady side of fifty,—a term of life not generally conceived to have any special recommendation in female eyes. For hats that fail and hats that flare; Toppers their universal wear; A man scores always, everywhere. There she sought and at last found 107A, one of those heterogeneous piles of offices which occupy the eastern side of the lane. “Who took care of you after she died?” “My father. But it seemed that their presence was not even suspected. We quickly drew up the documentation and made living arrangements for you and I. He seized a tray, squatted on the floor, and imitated the tom-tom.
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