'Have you got some money? Just two dollars? I need something to eat.'
'Sorry.' The voice kept on walking.
'You're not sorry. None of you care. None of you care at all. You're not sorry. Don't you say you're sorry to me. I hate you all. You can have your money and your sorry.'
The hunchbacked drunk woman walked 100 metres up the street, still cursing, and got hit by a tram. The nurse at the hospital who mended her cuts and bruises was sorry. She was sorry she had to work and deal with such horrible people. The nurse had met a man the night before at a wine bar and he was half decent, although he was balding a little at the back. In fact, he probably wouldn't have much hair left by the time he was 40. But that was okay with her, as long as he gave her a child by then. The hair problem was nothing in the scheme of things.
The voice that had kept on walking went and ordered some Florence Broadhurst wallpaper. She was redecorating her home and life was fine.
