Dolores de Ruiter had lived a life of half-truths. And what was not the best of her lies—indeed, what Harry thought of as one of the most painful lies he’d ever been associated with—became evident at the funeral. One after another, the prostitutes who’d known Rooie took Harry aside to ask him the same question. “Where’s the daughter?” Or, looking over the multitude of old Dr. Bosman’s grandchildren, they would ask: “Which one is she? Isn’t the daughter here?” “Rooie’s daughter is dead,” Harry had to tell them. “In fact, she’s been dead for quite a number of years.” In
This book is such an airplane book but i love it
