I’m so glad you’re not angry. When Ann Veronica got it she had at first a wild, fantastic idea that it contained a tip. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. ‘Tie a horse behind the carriage?’ he echoed incredulously. She answered in whispers, for there was the white arm of a woman in the next box peeping beyond the partition within a yard of him. There were the burnt papers still in the grate. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. He stalked her, he stared at her, he craved her, he sidled slinking and propitiatory and yet relentlessly toward her, until at last she awoke from the suffocating nightmare nearness of his approach, and lay awake in fear and horror listening to the unaccustomed sounds of the hotel.
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