The top floor, at last, along the corridor and into Mrs Goldfire's room. Onto her knees by the bed and burying her face in the scent of the old woman's blankets. Breathing in the sweetness as deeply as she could. Holding the old lady's hand. How could her sister behave like that: trying to make her unhappy just because she was? If she couldn't conduct herself properly she would be asked to leave, there was nothing else for it. The old lady's hand felt so fragile. It was dry and almost without flesh. A clutch of twigs bound together at the wrist. Her sister's shouting, her throwing things around and her endless interrogation, that was all over and finished with. Soon the old lady's hand would begin stroking her hair, and she would feel comforted. Soon she would feel loved.