“I think it is. Sir, I don’t look so bad here when I can imagine meat on my bones and to be clean, Sir. But home, I were on the streets. Here in Nott, the same now. But no one ain’t out for murdering me here. I would have died from cold or hunger or my Pa and his friends at home. Here, perhaps the cold will get me? We will see.”

She speaks rapidly, without pause. It’s a trait of someone who knows they’re not listened to and someone who is desperate for someone to hear. At last, she stops to draw breath, to look at Phoenix, to see if he’s judging her.

“I weren’t scared of death, Sir. Still not. It’d be a nice rest. God though, I wish it’d be quick. If it were my Parnasse or Papa ior the one, they’d have me for days, I know. Where di you come from? America? Everyone says America here.”