Her fine black brows made Gothic arches. "Yes? What about Johnny?"
"It was a terrible accident right after—that is, about five months ago. He was killed."
"Killed?" Greta repeated blankly. "Johnny Gorman was killed?"
"Traffic accident. Killed instantly."
"But Johnny was your friend, your best friend. Why didn't you have him resurrected the same way you did me?"
"Darling, resurrection is a risky business and an expensive one. You have to pay premium prices for strawberries in February. I no longer have the money to pay for a resurrection of Johnny."
Greta turned her back to him. "It's just as well. You shouldn't bring back Johnny to this dream of life, give him a ghost of mind and the photograph of a soul. It's monstrous. No one should do that. No one. But you're sure you haven't the money to do it?"
"No," Linton said. "I'm sold out. I've borrowed on my insurance to the hilt. It won't pay any more until I'm buried, and then, of course, you can resurrect me."
"Of course," Greta said. She sighed. "Poor Johnny. He was such a good friend of yours. You must miss him. I'm so sorry for you."
"I have you," he said with great simplicity.