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Proserpina

“It’s not really appropriate discussion for someone your age,” Miss Havisham says.

Proserpina just waits.

“Very well, if you insist,” says Miss Havisham. “But I’m not undoing my bodice again: I’ll trace it. Here.”

Proserpina watches her finger. “Where did you get it?” she asks.

“A harbor town on the far side of the world.” She shakes her head. “Quite a lifetime ago. Your lifetime, nearly.”

“Is it like a brand?”

“Hardly! The King of England has tattoos, you know.”

“Miss Greenbrier says the Romans tattooed escaped slaves.”

“We’re women, Proserpina,” says Miss Havisham tiredly. “To what else do we aspire?”

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