She loved to walk through the gardens, graced with columns that loomed overhead. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. " "Ay—ay," laughed Jonathan. By George, I forgot! McClintock said there was a typewriter in the office and that I could have it. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. "Safe!" shouted Darrell, as he effected a secure landing. Kimble was clearly a plain-spoken fellow. Stood on his dignity and shut us up in great style. The subject matter was generally worthless, but the handling was well done. He was brooding over her, she could sense it, and the shadowy circles around his lovely dark eyes bespoke a terrible ongoing insomnia.
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