“When you’re dead,” Baru says, with rising delight, a wicked joy, “I’m going to take a pass at your secret daughter. I’ll have her to a very charming dinner. I’ll flirt with her over iced vodka and blackberries. I’ll compliment her on her poise. When we get up to leave, I’ll slip an arm around her waist and ask her if she’d like to see my houseboat. And who knows what’ll happen? Who knows? Not you. You’ll be in a little garret, writing letters for me, selling yourself piece by piece so I’ll let you live another day.”
