“Call me Cathy, John. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. ‘You don’t know the whole, child. Hips tended to be the bane of Shari’s existence as she tried diet after diet to get rid of them. “Don’t think that I have been playing the spy upon you,” he continued. "Don't fire," cried the latter. . Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. There are so many things I want to tell you, and they stand on such different levels, that the effect is necessarily confusing and discordant, and I find myself doubting if I am really giving you the thread of emotion that should run through all this letter.
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