I’m afraid I’m a terribly clumsy fellow. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. You are my slave—and such you shall continue. But if I painted her as I'd like to, the natives would instantly distrust me; and I'd have to build up confidence all over again. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, after a long interval, “if they are absurd. Did he intend to kill her now, this instant? Or had she a moment or two to try to save herself? Recalling Leonardo’s dictum, she did not struggle, for that would only tighten the trap about her, and perhaps even spring it.
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