*As Amrita listens to his reading, her lips part and her eyes sharpen with pain, somehow become deeper with it. She's thinking of how the world had been laid out before her when she was young, and how by a bit of bad luck it was all snatched away. She's thinking of her French and her way with the piano, and her Marathi jewelry, long since pawned. She's thinking of her own painful transformations, and the taste of her own blood in her mouth: of Evan's obvious wealth, and his fine way of speaking and book of poetry. She looks at his unblemished hands holding her own and feels her throat tighten. She whispers, with an attempt at levity she doesn't feel.*

Right. Of course.