He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. Anna tore it open and passed it to Courtlaw. What was it she had expected? Surely her moods were getting a little out of hand. “I think,” he said, “I was a little too mystical about beauty the other day. So, let's think no more about it. He had particular reasons for wanting to keep Spurlock away from the jetty.
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