She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. The life of a young girl is set about with prowling pitfalls. But to draw the attention of the milice, no, that is not at all desirable. How does one get work? She walked along the Strand and across Trafalgar Square, and by the Haymarket to Piccadilly, and so through dignified squares and palatial alleys to Oxford Street; and her mind was divided between a speculative treatment of employment on the one hand, and breezes—zephyr breezes—of the keenest appreciation for London, on the other. He scratched his upper lip reflectively. I’ve never seen her quite so sure of herself. She would become defensive—what she did would be the thing that mattered.
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