On that clear winter morning, when the brothel owner held Meiglin's face in her fleshy, perfume-scented palms, the girl would have preferred to die. Closing her eyes, Meiglin silently endured, while the mistress’s appraising fingers felt her tender young skin and touched the curls of her shiny dark brown hair. No, the sharp nails digging into her body were not a nightmare. Meiglin suppressed her horror and tried her best not to cry. Only the last fool could console herself with the hope that she would be able to pity her mistress and preserve her innocence. Even though her breasts had just begun to round, and her hips remained boyishly narrow under her tattered skirt, one of yesterday’s visitors grinned and winked at her. Meiglin was carrying out another errand and ran past him, flushed from haste. He noticed the girl and winked at her. And the hostess noticed his interest.