The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. Wood was dressed with more than ordinary care, and in more than ordinary finery. But a far greater affliction was in store for her. She would take the items with her; bury the items and her bloodstained clothes in one of the many sinkholes in the huge landfill/garbage dump on the south side of town. The chief of these was a figure of Liberty, with a cat at her feet, in allusion to the supposed origin of the fortunes of its former founder, Sir Richard Whittington. I can be a gentleman. She was in a very uncritical state that afternoon. ‘Now what?’ The guard jerked his head up the corridor. In all this world there was no sacred ground that said to her: Return! She was of all human beings the most lonely. Think of those days in Paris.
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