"Confusion! the rascal must have picked my pocket of your letters," whispered Kneebone, "What's to be done?" "What's to be done! Why, I'm undone! How imprudent in you not to burn them. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. "My enemy," replied her son. ‘Didn’t mean it, love. “What have I done, Miss Pellissier?” he pleaded. ’ ‘Because I was a servant in the vicomte’s house? Things have changed.
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