You owe what I have done for you, to him, not to me. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. “Gellett,” he called, “just come and clear up a mess, will you? I’ve smashed some things. She hung for a moment, and then went on, conclusively, “Until we have the vote that is how things WILL be. ” “You’ll never pay me. “You’re still,” he said, “in the educational years. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. They were alike in one phase—loveless and lonely. “It’s—private.
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