The old man looked, if anything, even worse than he had before. Paler and even less substantial, as if dying were a fading away process where all the colour and substance leached out of you, a little at a time, until nothing was left, not even a grin.
As Kim approached his couch, his father's hand shot out and grabbed that of his son. Kim looked down at the hand. It was so light it might have been made of paper, the skin wrinkled and mottled with liver spots. It had bent into the shape of a claw and, claw-like, it clung to Kim with a surprisingly strong grip.
"Come here, my son," whispered the death's head on the pillow, and Kim bent to hear his father's words.
"What!" he cried, unable to believe he had heard aright.
"I would see you married before I die." The old man's voice sighed l
