272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. It was a charming sight to watch the motions of her tiny fingers as she pursued her task; and though the posture she adopted was not the most favourable that might have been chosen for the display of her sylphlike figure, there was something in her attitude, and the glow of her countenance, lighted up by the mellow radiance of the setting sun falling upon her through the panes of the little dormer-window, that seemed to the youth inexpressibly beautiful. It was a pity people had to eat food. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. Look what you have brought upon your pets. “You can date whomever you wish. She opened the door to him herself. Most of the time, he was hunting and he returned at night. “Have to take your turn,” he remarked laconically. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy.
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