272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. Shortly to be executed. That register would be easy to get at; comforting thought. And I’d do it again for you if needs be. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine.
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