“Oh,” Barnaby said, suddenly almost preening – he had perked up in posture, tucking a strand of hair (that hadn’t actually moved back into place at all) behind his ear. Sometimes people were morbidly interested, he was very used to that... but the possibility of a writer interested in his tales was something else entirely.
It was no exaggeration to say Barnaby had been waiting for this moment all his death.
“‘Tis a very good idea indeed,” Barnaby said, musingly, trying not to seem too eager. He eyed the man impatiently. “And the writer in question would be...” he trailed off, raising an eyebrow to say whom, exactly? The man had supplied him a word; was he the wordsmith, then, or did he know of some obliging biographer?
It was no exaggeration to say Barnaby had been waiting for this moment all his death.
“‘Tis a very good idea indeed,” Barnaby said, musingly, trying not to seem too eager. He eyed the man impatiently. “And the writer in question would be...” he trailed off, raising an eyebrow to say whom, exactly? The man had supplied him a word; was he the wordsmith, then, or did he know of some obliging biographer?
