McClintock sent his yacht over for us this morning. Come back—you must come back. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. He glanced out of the window, looked back at the major and grasped the handle of the door. You know very well that you took from my easel David Courtlaw’s study of me, and sent it to Cariolus. “This isn’t furtive,” said Ann Veronica. For a few moments, Thames regarded the little girl through the half-opened door in silence. I could never have talked to you like this, forgetting everything that parts us, forgetting even your age, if I did not love you utterly.
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