The Bitchster strikes again. "Is it you?" "It is," replied her son, "Oh! why would you not listen to me?" "I was distracted," replied Mrs. “Hold on, she’s right here. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise.
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