She laughed. The poor wretch, driven by desperation to the commission of a crime which her soul abhors, is no more beyond the hope of reformation than she is without the pale of mercy. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun. In the artificial light her skin had the tint and lustre of a yellow pearl. “Of course you don’t. I never had even a real doll," she added, as she snuggled the flea-bitten head to her heart. God had never answered any of her prayers.
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