Brown; twisted; covered in lumps and knobs and patches of grass. But it doesn’t smell like ginger. Oh no. It smells like . . . it smells like . . . Augh. I think I’m going to vomit. Each toenail is like a slab of whalebone, and the soles are as hard as horn. But what’s this? What’s this? It’s coming apart in my hand! No. No it isn’t. Don’t be a fool, Pagan, it’s just dirt. O give thanks unto the Lord, I thought his toe had come off. There. That’s finished. One more wipe, and on to the next. But how many more? This foot here, and the two beside it . . . that’s twelve altogether. Twelve stinking paupers’ feet! For one miserable oath! It hardly seems fair. A single foot would be punishment enough. You know what they say about paupers: their feet go down to death; their steps take hold on hell. Whew! And it’s so hot in here, too. So hot and noisy and crowded. Bedridden paupers coughing and spitting. Visiting paupers swapping names. Rush-collectors filing past, into the almoner’s office with their bundles, out again with their payments of bread.
