Michelle tossed her hair like a young colt flicking its tail. She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. But—It’s just this: who was to be hurt?” “I wish no one had to be hurt,” said Ann Veronica. Built and paved with stone, without beds, or any other sort of protection from the cold, this dreadful hole, accounted the most dark and dismal in the prison, was made the receptacle of such miserable wretches as could not pay the customary fees. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly.
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