But the clearly definite thing was the ultimate escape. “Yes. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Don't suppose," she added, with a scornful glance at her helpmate, "that I would pay him the compliment of thinking he could possibly be the father of such a boy as you. He talked about his driver's license, how he would soon inherit his older brother's BMW. “No, those are my brother’s dog tags. For a long time to come that would naturally be the theme of any story he undertook to write. She was chic, distinguished, unusual. But Enschede took them as they came, without question.
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