Her eyes were shut. It had filled her with rage to pull on her grey bodice this morning. There was no call for looking-glasses in the Magdalen, where seventy-two bodies reflected her own. Like mantua-makers' poppets, the girls knelt in rows in the chapel, displaying their uniform virtue to the visitors' gaze. Each wore a flat straw hat-as if to shade her eyes from the light, but really to hide her face-bound on with a royal-blue ribbon. It was the only splash of colour permitted, and a shade Mary had never liked. The Penitents even smelt much the same as each other, it occurred to her now, and no wonder; the same stewed beef, the same sweat, the same whiff of ash soap on their necks.

The opening hymn brought the congregation to their feet with great rustlings and creakings of whalebone. Mary leaned her numb weight on her hands and clambered up. Looking round covertly, she counted five Governors at the back, with their white ceremonial staves catching the light from the sconces. The Lady Subscribers wafted their fans.

The Magdalens were known for their singing, the obedience of their divided harmonies.

How many kindred souls are fled To the vast regions of the dead Mary's fingers were icy; she flicked through the prayer book to find the words. Her voice came in with a caw in the third line.

Since from this day the changing sun Since from this day the changing sun Thro' his last yearly period has run?

As the organ crashed between verses, the cheap print blurred for Mary. Who might have died this year, without her knowing? She gave a brief thought to Susan Digot in Charing Cross, quilting squares for petticoats at sixpence a piece; too skinny to live to a great age, surely? Mary wondered if Billy had thrived, or whether he'd swallowed a needle yet. And William Digot; when would he buckle under his load of coal? Strange that they could all be rotten in their graves and Mary wouldn't know of it. And wouldn't much care either.

Was that hard-hearted? Well, so what if it was. She'd been through enough to harden anyone. It was none of her choosing; all she'd done was clung on to her life like a spar from a shipwreck. Better to be hardened than crushed to nothing.

A wintry glance from Matron Butler made Mary bend her head and join in the 'Hymn on the New Year.' Tomorrow would be 1763; it had a new and alien ring to it. Who was to say Mary herself would live to see another Christmas? Her voice died away again in the middle of the verse. She felt an intolerable need to get out of this building. She held her thumbs tightly, like triggers.

Back down on her aching knees, Mary tried to keep her balance. She swayed a little forwards, a little backwards on the stone floor, like a giddy kite tethered to the ground. High in his walnut pulpit stood young Reverend Dodds, announcing the theme. 'Can the Ethiopian change his skin,' 'Can the Ethiopian change his skin,' he quoted impressively, he quoted impressively, 'or the leopard his spots?' 'or the leopard his spots?'

Mary thought of leopards. She'd paid a ha'penny to see one at the Tower last winter; its spots were huge and lush, and it was the angriest creature she'd ever set eyes on. Sometimes it paced back and forth through her dreams.

'The thirteenth verse of the Book of Jeremiah,' Dodds went on, 'is a vastly vastly suitable text for this, the last night of the year of our Lord seventeen hundred and sixty-two.' His cauliflower wig dipped over his bright cheeks. Mary eyed the puce breeches that embraced his thighs without a wrinkle: they must have cost five pounds if a penny, she reckoned. Her fingers itched to test the pile of the velvet. suitable text for this, the last night of the year of our Lord seventeen hundred and sixty-two.' His cauliflower wig dipped over his bright cheeks. Mary eyed the puce breeches that embraced his thighs without a wrinkle: they must have cost five pounds if a penny, she reckoned. Her fingers itched to test the pile of the velvet.

The sermon-tasters in the front rows nodded along like pigeons, as if Jeremiah 13 was the very verse of the very book they would have chosen themselves. An ostrich feather nodded in the gallery, light as foam. A good house, thought Mary: a sprinkling of nobs, and plenty of country cousins up for the Twelve Days, seeing the sights, and none prettier than bad women made good.

The Reverend could be relied on not to weary the visitors with too much hard thought. He turned now to the distresses of the vulnerable young women of London, 'how like straying sheep,' he moaned, 'they fall prey to the ravening wolves of avarice and vice.' The Lady Subscribers sucked in their white and red cheeks. The gentlemen looked into the distance, as if they had never heard of such a phenomenon as 'the slavery of prostitution,' thought Mary with dark amusement.

Now Dodds began his rhapsody on the most humane, most merciful Magdalen Hospital. 'A hospital not for the body, no! but for the character character-where these young women may return to the natural state of female virtue, and learn to grow the fruits of honest toil.' As his cheeks turned to juicy cherries in the heat of the packed chapel, Mary could almost see why the little girls swooned for the Chaplain-in-Extraordinary, which was his full title. Dodds rose on his toes now and extended one long white hand in the direction of the Penitents, shaking back a triple ruffle. Belgian lace, Mary reckoned, peering past the brim of her hat. And a fat diamond on the finger that pointed now at a girl in the front row, little Amy who'd fainted in the gutter on Petition Day. 'Though the Ethiopian will be black forever, according to the Divine plan, you, you, Amy Pratt, may yet be washed clean of your manifold sins!' Amy Pratt, may yet be washed clean of your manifold sins!'

It is a sin To steal a pin Mary's head was full of detritus; the rhymes nailed into it at school were the hardest to shake out. Amy Pratt leapt to her feet, now, swaying with excitement. It occurred to Mary to join her, as an excuse to straighten her legs. Had the Reverend picked Amy quite at random tonight, or was it for her pink oval face, exposed now as she raised her eyes to merciful heaven and her hat swung back like a straw halo? The gentleman in the pigeon-wing wig seemed to approve of the choice; he passed his spy-glass to his blond friend-who was too modish to wear a wig at all. The blond stared down as if at the opera-house. Now where had Mary seen him before?

'Here before us,' proclaimed Dodds with a tender wave at Amy Pratt, 'we see a woman-nay, a very child-stripped by penury, enfeebled by hunger, and lured into depravity at an all too tender age.'

Sell it before you lose it, chanted Doll in Mary's head. Mary exchanged a tiny grimace with Honour Boyle, who was picking her nails with a splinter from the pew. chanted Doll in Mary's head. Mary exchanged a tiny grimace with Honour Boyle, who was picking her nails with a splinter from the pew.

'But as Jeremiah instructs us, Then may ye also do good, who are accustomed to do evil,' Then may ye also do good, who are accustomed to do evil,' the preacher recited in the rolling bass he kept for the Prophets. the preacher recited in the rolling bass he kept for the Prophets.

Matron Butler, pinned on her knees at the end of the row, knitted up her lips as if she doubted that, somehow. Mary could sense the Matron's cool eyes on her, and she had to pretend to be looking at a painting on the wall. Mary's namesake in dusty oils, the Virgin, six months gone, stumbled across an arid field into the curved arms of her cousin. Mary imagined their big bellies meeting with a thump.

Dodds was bouncing up and down on his shiny toes as he recited one of the Hospital's own hymns.

Flee, Sinners, flee th' unlawful Bed, Lest Vengeance send you down to dwell, In the dark Regions of the Dead, To feed the fiercest Fires of Hell.

He relished the rhymes; Mary suddenly suspected him of writing poetry in his spare time.

But Amy Pratt's faint sobs were swelling now. She burst forth in lamentation, gulping the air like a fish. Honour Boyle was giggling; she could never stop once she got started. Mary avoided her eye. The girls next to Amy Pratt were climbing to their feet one by one, infected by her shame, their tired legs shaking.

'Embrace the light,' Dodds urged them, gripping the glossy edge of his pulpit. Jill Hoop, eleven years old and unused to metaphor, cast an appalled glance at the chandelier that hung near the pulpit; she was clearly reckoning the distance. The older girls quivered in their pews. Who would be the first to faint tonight? Sixteen or seventeen, most of them, years older than Mary; ought to know better, she thought coldly. A bowl of proper tea to steady the nerves, that's what they needed. Or better yet, a slug of gin.

The Reverend managed to look distressed and gratified at the same time. Were those tears in his eyes, or just a glitter of candlelight? 'Be of good cheer,' he told the girls now in a buttermilk voice. 'Through the grace of God and his Son, you have been lifted from the Hades Hades of the streets into this of the streets into this Elysium Elysium of sisterhood.' Upturned faces stared at him, bewildered by the allusions. 'This is no grim house of correction,' he carolled. 'It is a safe refuge from your miserable former circumstances-a happy home at last.' of sisterhood.' Upturned faces stared at him, bewildered by the allusions. 'This is no grim house of correction,' he carolled. 'It is a safe refuge from your miserable former circumstances-a happy home at last.'

But the girls had picked up grief like a fever; whimpers passed down the rows. The Ruineds were the most sentimental, Mary thought scornfully. Jane Taverner stooped down, heavy with tears; she was a vicar's daughter. Was it acceptable for a Presidor to remain dry-faced, Mary wondered with a slight start? She knotted her hands on the hard rim of her stays and dipped her chin, as a halfway measure. Her neck began to throb in time with her knees.

When she glanced up next, the velvet-coated blond man was whispering a joke in his friend's ear. She wished she could remember who he was; a lawyer, maybe? He was looking down most eagerly at the Magdalens. At least let him pay for it, thought Mary furiously. Why should we kneel here and let him gawk for nothing?

The lady with the ostrich feather was craning over the rail. Over a dark blue petticoat and bodice she was wearing a loose slammerkin in cream shirred silk; the light of every candle in the chapel was lost in its flounces. Her hair was dressed in such a heavy, flower-studded egg, it was always possible she might topple over the edge of the balcony and keep Honour Boyle laughing all year. Her pearl-ringed hands squeezed the pew cloth. Three of the Ruineds had worked the ivy leaves on that one, Mary remembered; a fortnight it took them, going all out.

Dodds plucked at his throat to loosen his black ribbon. He opened his arms to the gallery. 'You see before you, most honourable Subscribers, a poignant display of true penitence. Do not the salt tears these lovely outcasts shed testify to their abhorrence of their crime?'

It is a crime To waste time.

Mary shook her head, to clear it of the childish words. Think how much time she'd wasted, kneeling in this chapel, every day and twice on Sundays, and all for the sake of a roof over her head. And here she was, penned into a herd of snivelling girls, while the sermon dragged on and on, and this the best night in the city's calendar. Mary's eyes strayed to the western window. What wouldn't she give to be out there tonight in London's familiar dirt, the streets strung with lamps as if for a perpetual holiday?

Suddenly the city sounded like a story, believed for a moment, then fading away. Mary remembered the huge swollen dome of St. Paul's as if from a dream. How could it be less than two months since she'd been cooped up here like a hen?

The Reverend Dodds slammed his white hand on the pulpit. Mary jumped and almost fell, but there was no room where she knelt in the press of bodies. She couldn't feel her knees; she had the illusion that it was her hollow petticoats that bore her up. The preacher's cambric handkerchief was fluttering in his hand like a badge of surrender. His excitement reminded Mary of a cully's last thrusts before the moment of spending. 'Though the leopard or the Negro cannot change the colour of their skins,' cried Reverend Dodds, 'each of you you can alter the hue of your heart, and this very night. Heaven,' he urged them in a cracking voice, 'is within your grasp.' can alter the hue of your heart, and this very night. Heaven,' he urged them in a cracking voice, 'is within your grasp.'

There might even be a riot, tonight, in the city; New Year's Eve was always a good time for trouble. Mary could black her face with chimney-dust in half a minute. She and Doll were liberal in their tastes; it didn't matter to them whether they were chanting 'Old Prices' or 'Dutchies Out,' forcing landlords to stand toasts or householders to light up their windows in honour of Hallowe'en. They'd once helped chase a pair of pickpockets all the way to Shoreditch.

Yes, that's where she knew that blond fellow from. Not a lawyer but a merchant; Mary had picked him up in Shoreditch one night last summer. Now she remembered: he couldn't keep his sail up, and she had to stuff it in by hand, and he splashed through her fingers and then tried to bilk her of her shilling. 'It's no fault of mine if you can't hold your liquor,' she bawled at him. He threw fivepence at her feet before weaving his way off in search of a carriage, the milk still dripping from his breeches. Mary waited till he was out of sight before she picked the coins out of the mud.

She stared up at him now; no chance of him recognising her in this Quakerish gear. Such a sleek look he had, with the gold seals hanging from his pocket and the snuffbox he passed to the lady beside him. Shoreditch was only a moment to him; it would have slipped from his memory by now. No doubt he had gone home to a house, a bed, a wife. A whore's life was made up of fragments of other people's.

He must have paid at least ten times fivepence for his ticket tonight, which amused Mary, until she remembered she wouldn't see a penny of it.

The Reverend Dodds was reaching his crisis. 'It only remains for these young women to choose life for ever. Choose, Choose, therefore,' he cried, turning to face them, flinging out both pink hands: 'choose for yourselves!' He held the moment. Then he took a reviving sniff at the nosegay pinned to his waistcoat, and bowed to the gallery before trotting down from the pulpit as the applause rained on his head. therefore,' he cried, turning to face them, flinging out both pink hands: 'choose for yourselves!' He held the moment. Then he took a reviving sniff at the nosegay pinned to his waistcoat, and bowed to the gallery before trotting down from the pulpit as the applause rained on his head.

Mary's hands clapped automatically. She discounted most of Dodds's remarks as sanctimonious nonsense, but she did try to remember the last time she chose, chose for herself. chose, chose for herself. Had she chosen to kiss the peddler, to be kicked out of home, to go on the town? Maybe not, but she hadn't stopped herself either. She struggled to think of one day in more than fifteen years of life when instead of drifting along like a leaf on the river she'd simply grabbed what she wanted. Had she chosen to kiss the peddler, to be kicked out of home, to go on the town? Maybe not, but she hadn't stopped herself either. She struggled to think of one day in more than fifteen years of life when instead of drifting along like a leaf on the river she'd simply grabbed what she wanted.

The ostrich feather bobbed, high above her. Mary had put such a feather against her throat once, in a milliner's; its touch made her shiver all over. She stared up now at the Lady Subscriber who sat wiping a tear from her eye with a square of lace. Her skirt filled up the pew like a bank of snow. Every line, every button, every shadow was beautiful. Mary spoke aloud inside her head: That's what I choose. That's who I'll be. Everything you have will someday be mine, I swear it. That's what I choose. That's who I'll be. Everything you have will someday be mine, I swear it.

Meanwhile, it occurred to her, life was much too short to while away on her knees. She pressed down on her hands and lifted herself to a sitting position. Her knees throbbed with pain and relief. She was the only upright body among the Magdalens; she registered the shock all round her, the eyes skidding sideways. She felt like the Queen, and smiled to herself.

Her eye caught that of Matron Butler, in the aisle, who made an unmistakable though tiny gesture with her finger: On your knees. On your knees. Mary considered the matter, then let her eyes unfocus as if she hadn't seen the Matron. She sat back against the bench, luxuriating in the support of the firm mahogany. The prayer book slid down into the curve of her skirt. They'd be letting off fireworks at Tower Hill in a couple of hours, bright enough to splash against the scrubbed windows of the Magdalen. Mary considered the matter, then let her eyes unfocus as if she hadn't seen the Matron. She sat back against the bench, luxuriating in the support of the firm mahogany. The prayer book slid down into the curve of her skirt. They'd be letting off fireworks at Tower Hill in a couple of hours, bright enough to splash against the scrubbed windows of the Magdalen.

'Why such indecent haste?' Sitting in her wainscoted office, Matron Butler was an owl staring at its prey.

'My health is quite restored. I think I've stayed here long enough, madam. And the offer is such a good one-' Mary's voice was jerky. She used to be a better liar than this. Overhead she could hear the dull thumps of the other girls going to bed with the remains of their bread and butter.

The Matron let out a long sigh, and for a moment Mary was somehow sorry for what she had to say. Then the Matron folded her long arms like barricades on the desk. 'If you are indeed so fortunate as to have a place with a dressmaker in Monmouth, far from the wickedness of this city,' she said, 'then I see no reason to dissuade you. It only remains for me to inspect the letter.'

Mary wet her lips. 'The letter?'

The Matron held out her hand for it. 'The letter, Saunders, in which your late mother's friend makes this generous and, if I may say so, extraordinary offer. The letter,' she went on acidly, 'that reached you without passing under the eyes of myself, the Assisting Matrons, or the Porter.'

Mary stared at the panelling; ugly wood, for all its expense. 'There wasn't-there's no need for a letter.'

Matron Butler's arms folded back into place. 'Indeed?'

'Mrs. Jane Jones, as I said, she was so devoted to my-my poor departed mother,' Mary stumbled on, 'she always said, she always used to promise, she'd take me on any time if I wanted to leave London.'

'Take on a girl who must own herself to be fouled?' The Matron said the word as if she could taste it.

Mary was surprised to feel herself blush like a coal. 'She said she would. Mrs. Jones, I mean. She always said she would, whatever happened, for my mother's sake.'

Matron Butler made Mary wait while she straightened her linen apron. 'If this woman Jones is still living,' she said thoughtfully, 'and this woman Jones is still living,' she said thoughtfully, 'and if if she still resides in Monmouth, and she still resides in Monmouth, and if if her family happens to be in need of a maidservant-what persuades you that her husband would be willing to let into his house, among his children, a known prostitute?' her family happens to be in need of a maidservant-what persuades you that her husband would be willing to let into his house, among his children, a known prostitute?'

Mary couldn't remember why she had ever had even a half-liking for this bitter old sow. She had run out of answers, now she bit on her bottom lip till it hurt. She heard a clatter upstairs. Hunger was a stone in her stomach. And then she looked up into the Matron's grey eyes. Words floated out of her mouth. 'You have to let me go.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'I've a right to my liberty,' said Mary softly. 'I remember it from the rules; I was listening, all those times. No one is kept here against her will. No one is kept here against her will. It's not a prison; it only feels like one.' It's not a prison; it only feels like one.'

Matron Butler's eyes suddenly reminded Mary of her mother's, on the last night in Charing Cross Road. She looked away, unable to bear their weight. A long moment, and then the Matron's voice vibrated like the string of a violin. 'In the space of a month or two, Mary Saunders, when you are lying broken and naked in Fleet Ditch-'

'I'm not a whore any more,' said Mary. The vehemence of her own words startled her.

The Matron's eyebrows lifted infinitesimally.

'That's all over,' said Mary, almost pleading. 'I want ... a better life.'

Those stony eyes softened a little. The Matron pulled her chair nearer and leaned over the desk. 'Mary,' she murmured as if imparting a secret. 'I know you to be a young woman of great capacities. Your education is solid, your wits are original, and your will is strong. In less than two months, with my own eyes I have seen you blossom into a seamstress of remarkable skill. But still the shadow hangs over you.'

Mary looked away.

'If you truly mean to escape from your former degradation, and your former so-called friends, then you must stay here with us until all your old habits are broken.'

'They are,' said Mary shortly.

Matron Butler shook her head sorrowfully. 'Not yet. You're still restless and perverse. I've seen you pick up work and then throw it down a minute later. Your face shuts up like a safe whenever you hear the Holy Word of God. You tell lies, such as this nonsensical story about Monmouth. The seeds may be planted, my dear, but it's not yet harvest-time.'

Mary stared at the wall, traced the pattern of the wainscoting.

'Just a few months,' coaxed the Matron. Her hand slid across the desk and enclosed Mary's chilly fingers. 'To prepare you for a truly better life, you need to remain a little longer here in the safety and sanctity of-'

'I can't,' the girl interrupted, throwing off the Matron's hand. The words broke out of her throat. 'This is no life!'

The Matron watched Mary as if across a great gulf. 'Very well,' she said, almost coolly. She got up and turned her back, lifting down a huge leather-bound volume and placing it in the dead centre of the desk. She pressed her hands flat on its cover. 'You are among the third.'

'The third what?'

'Ever since this institution was founded,' said the Matron, 'it has been our experience that we cannot expect to save more than two of every three.'

Mary was struck between the ribs by something like regret. 'I truly mean to better myself,' she mumbled.

The Matron ignored that. She opened the huge volume with two hands as if it were Scripture, and read in a low voice: 'Sarah Shore, restored to her friends by the grace of God, placed in service as a washerwoman in Glasgow.' 'Sarah Shore, restored to her friends by the grace of God, placed in service as a washerwoman in Glasgow.'

God help Sally, thought Mary; bleeding from the nails by now.

'Betty Vale, sent to St. Benet's Hospital.' The Matron ran the words together under her breath. Mary remembered Betty, who somehow hid her belly till her waters broke in Chapel. How the Reverend Dodd extemporised! The Matron ran the words together under her breath. Mary remembered Betty, who somehow hid her belly till her waters broke in Chapel. How the Reverend Dodd extemporised!

'Moll Gatterly, dismissed for irregularities.'

Was that the word for it? Moll had threatened the smaller girls with her needle till they handed over their puny wages.

'Jessie Haywood,' the Matron murmured, the Matron murmured, 'restored to her friends by the grace of God, married a journeyman of good character. Lucy Shepherd, died contrite.' 'restored to her friends by the grace of God, married a journeyman of good character. Lucy Shepherd, died contrite.'

Died raving about worms, more like, remembered Mary. Did this book contain the full list of destinies, ever since the Magdalen had opened its gates?

'And Mary Saunders,' Mary Saunders,' said the Matron at last, slowing down as her quill marked an inky path across the page, said the Matron at last, slowing down as her quill marked an inky path across the page, 'discharged at her own request. 'discharged at her own request.' She looked up, her eyes as dry as salt. 'What reason?'

'Uneasy under confinement,' suggested Mary gravely.

The Matron paused a moment, then wrote it down. 'You will leave at the end of the week.'

'No,' breathed Mary, 'tonight.'

CHAPTER THREE.

Liberty THE ROCKET cracked a mile above her head. Mary felt the jolt in her spine; her eardrums crackled and itched. Another, and another; the yellow-tailed stars fell as slow as leaves on the heads of the watchers. Spiked high on the wall of the Tower, a Catherine wheel spun like a soul in hellfire. Squibs moved like snakes, straining to escape across the sky, before they too coughed out their guts of light. Dark white smoke against the black night, drifting like fog, and the glitter of the fireworks caught in it, gold rain. cracked a mile above her head. Mary felt the jolt in her spine; her eardrums crackled and itched. Another, and another; the yellow-tailed stars fell as slow as leaves on the heads of the watchers. Spiked high on the wall of the Tower, a Catherine wheel spun like a soul in hellfire. Squibs moved like snakes, straining to escape across the sky, before they too coughed out their guts of light. Dark white smoke against the black night, drifting like fog, and the glitter of the fireworks caught in it, gold rain.

Mary couldn't believe how cold the air was tonight; it lit up the inside of her mouth like a bunch of spearmint. It didn't make her cough, though; her lungs were strong again. Grit fell in her eyes; she covered them, then bared them again, peering round her hand. Colours she'd never seen, had no words for, were lavished on the hard sky. She couldn't imagine how this magic was done, how the air exploded without killing the watchers, how the stars were made to come out all at once in every colour of the rainbow.

At the base of the Tower, men bared to the waist ran up with tapers, sweating in the cold, then dashed to a safe distance. 'Last year one of them run the wrong way, and stumbled on a rocket,' commented an old man to his neighbour, just in front of Mary.

'I remember,' the woman said in satisfaction. 'I heard there was a hole burnt clear through him!'

Silver lights plummeted and faces appeared again all round Mary, hundreds and thousands of them, thick-set like primroses all over Tower Hill. No one was looking back at her; their eyes were all on the extravagant lights. In the crowd she saw a child with his face to the sky, his mouth an O of wonder. Then she noticed his small hand picking the pocket of the gentleman beside him, and she laughed out loud. It felt like the first time she'd laughed all winter.

The white fog of smoke rolled over the crowd and the bodies surged backwards. The woman in front of Mary stood on her foot; Mary shoved her away. Burning ash landed on wigs and bonnets; screams went up. People pressed against Mary from all sides, squeezing the breath out of her. She won herself a space with her elbows.

The smoke sank. Was that the last of it? 'More,' bawled the crowd. A silence; that plaintive sound of something whizzing up into the sky, and every mouth in the city seemed to hold its breath. Then a crack like a gun, and the darkness split again. Rockets exploded like blood jetting from a dozen cuts. A Roman candle spat out stars. Mary's neck was stiff from watching the world turned upside down. She could almost believe those preachers who claimed earthquakes were a sign of God's wrath. How could the Mighty Master not be irked by such a stealing of his thunder?

When the show was finally over and the sky cleared, the crowd began to stretch and thin. Mary stumbled; she couldn't feel her frozen legs. She was seized from behind by an old fellow with one arm. 'Sound of war, that is,' he boasted fearfully in her ear.

'As if you'd remember!' said Mary, not unkindly.

She picked out a small coin from the sewing wages the Matron had given her, and bought a cup of hot gin from a barrow-woman to warm up her insides; its harsh perfume mixed with the smoke on her tongue. If she kept moving she'd be all right. She spent another few pence on a small pot of rouge and applied it to her mouth and cheekbones. Glancing in a shop window, she saw her reflection, her old familiar red-lipped harlot's face.