None of it was right. None of it. Not Martha sobbing over the torn floorboard and the loss of her little bit of hope. Not the hunger up and down the street; the pinched, hollow faces; the blue lips and fingers, while men like Dominic had hot baths and fires in every room. Not Zoë straddling a naked man whose neck she’d just saved and still begging pardon for a few hard words. Not Dominic, who said he loved Silas but had another man’s hooks
