Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. To preserve herself, however, from destitution, or what she considered worse, she wedded a journeyman carpenter, named Sheppard.
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