"My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. " Some innate sense of balance told her that something was wrong with these tales. But I've stacks of books and a grand piano-player. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness.
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