Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. "Added to which, she is neither so young as she was, nor, is her temper by any means improved—hem!" "Say no more on the subject, Sir," observed the stranger, gravely; "but let us turn to a more agreeable one—her daughter.
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