Once again, unbidden, came the memory of her old recurring dream, that of herself living in a strange house in a strange place and with a strange, dangerous man. Dangerous and desirable. She sighed, feeling at once empty and very sad. Dream on! No one had ever wanted her, except to use her, which so far hadn't happened, touch wood!
No, that wasn't fair. The cantankerous old lady she had worked for for six years had been good to her, in her gruff way. Old Father Mugford had been kind to her, had got her off the streets and helped her find a job, and later a place of her very own to live. But . . . no one had ever loved her. Not really. And not in the way she dreamed about, when she dared to dream at all. She sighed. 'What am I complaining about? Us strays are impossible to love, that's all. Pity is the best we can hope for. I should just shut up and be thankful that someone is going to feed me.'
With such thoughts, like so many phantom mice being chased about in her head, she fell asleep.