It’s John. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. I shall take to him as nat'ral as if he were my own flesh and blood afore long. She had warned him. She had been sitting on the bench for two and a half hours, which was uneventful except for the homeless men who begged for change. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. ‘Forgive this intrusion, ma’am, I beg. “I hope you have not come for that. She felt that there was a hidden meaning under his words. .
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