She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. Afterward she wanted to get her letter to her father back in order to read it over again, and, if it tallied with her general impression of it, re-write it. "It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew," cried Trenchard. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. “You may find in it a paragraph of some interest to you.
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