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There was the true continuity.
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San Narciso had no boundaries.
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No one knew yet how to draw them.
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She had dedicated herself weeks ago to making sense of what Inverarity
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had left behind, never suspecting that the legacy was America.
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And then, I'm going to skip down a little bit:
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Though she never again called back any image of the
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dead man to dress up, pose, talk to and make answer,
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neither would she lose a new compassion for the cul-de-sac he'd
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tried to find a way out of, for the enigma his efforts had created.
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What we don't get here is a sense of whether there really is an alternate
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secret postal system that serves a sort of underground of private networks.