His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. Scissors with which to cut her hair, just in case. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. "What's the matter, father!" continued the new-comer, addressing Wood. "Goodness only knows what he's reserved for," rejoined the widow in a desponding tone; "but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last night at the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in his bed.
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