For a space he rode the whirligig. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. There will be no more children in this house, not ever! And if anyone ever tries bringing children into our house again, I shall kill the lot of them. Most of you Americans pattern all Chinese upon those who fill a little corner in New York. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. She released her clutch on it as, dizzy with exhaustion, she leaned against the back of the pew and closed her eyes, her fingers grasping out automatically for support. Every man in her life had betrayed her one way or another. Then she would be dead, and that was no use. They reached Wimbledon, and Ramage whipped out to hand Miss Stanley to the platform as though she had been a duchess, and she descended as though such attentions from middle-aged, but still gallant, merchants were a matter of course.
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