"What? Are you mad? I am not dead!" She shrugged. "Soon, yes. Soon, my Papa will have me struck down in the street. He won't do it himself, the coward." She spat over the side of her armchair. "But he will have Claquesous and Babet do it. Or Montparnasse shall slit my throat, and they'll find me, half eaten by dogs, and they'll throw me into a pit. Or the winter - oh yes, I should have died, if I were in Paris, Sir... oh yes. And I die here as well. Over and over. Oh yes. You will soon feel dead, Sir. Empty, as if the air should blow you away, empty, like so many bellies in Paris."