“It is unimportant,” she said. The material cares of life hang about your neck like a millstone. M. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. ’ ‘As far as I know it, ma’am. Papa has sent me to be religieuse. It is putting all my dreams out of joint.
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