She stumbled to the butt and lifted the cover. The still water down in the depths of the curving barrel was a dark mirror. A ravaged face stared up with tight lines of pain, cold stones for eyes, a creased forehead framed in a dark tangle of lank hair. She grabbed the pannikin off its nail and smashed the picture scooping up a draught, water running down her throat and arms as she guzzled. Her reflection in the water had been a shock.
Convict women didn t see mirrors.
The last time she had looked in one, it was at a soft face with full cheeks and large dark brown eyes. The forehead had been smooth above a short turned-up nose, generous lips, and a firm chin. Her olive skin must have come from a gypsy forbear, her father used to joke. She swayed back towards the laundry, and felt her legs crumple. The guard stared at her at her in cold contempt.