She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. “He is not—I don’t like him. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. Jeremiah Jackson and Mr. ‘Oh, we was always in there, miss,’ admitted Joan, moving closer.
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