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160 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1979
The way to the prison lay through the medieval part of the city, by the river. The river was frozen, but no children skated on it. Scenes of horror from the late war were everywhere. Limbs, long unburied, stuck out of deep snow. Long-dead hands implored mercy. Decapitated heads, stuck on pikes, adorned one of the bridges. Passers-by shouted obscenities at her. Elena kept her face hunched in her turned-up collar, and hurried on. She almost fainted with the cold, realized how weak she was still. The sky was leaden, tinged with purple; more snow to come. By three in the afternoon it was dusk.
She had gone back on the streets. There was no money left, no jobs to be had, even in service; she had tried everywhere. At least, she would still be mistress of her soul. Marion was horrified at the idea, and guilty at being in the position of having to live off her friend’s degradation; but in the end there seemed to be no alternative. In a city where nearly everyone whored in the spirit, selling each other, it was almost a virtue merely to sell your own body. So Elena dolled herself up, as much as her poverty allowed, plastering her face with cheap lipstick, powder and mascara, took her courage in both hands, and sallied forth. She found the streets much changed: the shop fronts dingier, the passers-by more derelict, drunken and uncouth, the whores dirtier, shabbier, more sullen and desperate.