At least on the roof the world opened up into miles of air, even if she couldn’t explore it. She tried to pretend, like a much smaller child, that she could make an imaginary friend of the cockerel on the weathervane; but he was as much a part of Ella as the brick chimney-stack. She couldn’t have any decent conversations with black iron that spoke only in creaks as it swung in the wind. Conversation with a friendly face was what Ella thought she might dream of, if she were still able to dream.
