272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. “All these days I have taken her for you. We mustn’t make it so. " "Constance alive? Impossible!" ejaculated Trenchard. Her depression since the “accident” had possessed her, she no longer cared how she looked as her beauty helped her not. Ramage, by a hundred skilful hints had led her to realize that the problem of her own life was inseparably associated with, and indeed only one special case of, the problems of any woman’s life, and that the problem of a woman’s life is love. She decided not to ask him outright if he wished to make love to her.
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