I was sorry for what I did afterwards; for, I don't know why, but, poor, lady! with her pale face, and black eyes, she reminded me of my mother. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. Why doesn’t she marry? Plenty of money under her father’s will. She had to do her thinking at home—under inspection. I am a physician first, which gives the man in me a secondary part. To them all I am nothing. She cried out with the pain of it.
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