IN THE EASTERN DISTRICT OF LONDON, AFTER DUSK, AUGUST 1888. The faint light barely shines, it seems, from the few gas street lamps that are not broken and from the fires under the cauldrons lit on the cobblestones, outside the taverns, where old vendors sell boiled sea snails. The stranger, dressed entirely in black, from her hat to her boots, slips from shadow to shadow unnoticed, as if she herself were nothing more than a shadow. In the place she comes from, it is unthinkable for any woman or girl to walk outside at night without the company of a husband, father, or brother. Nevertheless, she is determined to do whatever it takes to find the person she has lost. With her eyes wide open behind the black veil that hides her face, she scans her surroundings, searching, observing as she moves forward. She sees broken glass on the cracked paving stones of the sidewalk. She sees rats roaming fearlessly, dragging their disgusting, hairless tails. She sees poorly dressed street children running barefoot beside the rats and the broken glass.

She sees couples, men in red flannel vests and women in cheap straw hats, staggering along hand in hand. She sees someone sprawled along a wall, drunk or asleep among the rats, perhaps even dead. She does not only see, she listens as well. Somewhere, a crank is being turned and a barrel organ pours out its tinkling melody into the smoke-filled night air. The music reaches the ears of the black-clad figure in fragments, as if dizzy from drink. At the entrance of a tavern, she hears a little girl shouting, "Daddy? Daddy?" She hears screams, laughter, shouts of drunkards, street vendors hawking their wares: "Oysters! Dip them in vinegar and swallow them whole, four big ones for just a penny!"