once spent eleven years in the mind of a poor widow who sold cabbages out back of the Poverty & Justice, at the Hippodrome end of Brook Street, just before the war. She was nobody: nobody’s wife, nobody’s daughter, nobody’s mother, nobody’s reliable tenant or valued employee. Nobody would ever miss her, take any notice if she started acting funny—or funnier than she usually did, poor addled creature. Even if I got rumbled, nobody would pay good money to have her put right, because that’s work for highly trained specialists, and their services are expensive. Seen as too ugly and too dumb to be
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