272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. “No I’m not, John. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. ” Her aunt answered in a low voice: “I was engaged to him, dear, for seven years, and then he died. She thought that women were not made for the struggle and turmoil of life— their place was the little world, the home; that their power lay not in votes but in influence over men and in making the minds of their children fine and splendid. ” The ants seemed to salute in attention.
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