Melita moved past the windows and as she did so she saw that there was a large bin filled with refuse waiting, she supposed, to be collected and taken away to be burnt in some other part of the estate.
As she drew level with it, she saw something lying on top of the bin, something she recognised.
It was the doll that Philippe had made for Rose-Marie lying amongst the rinds of the pawpaw, the skins of the bananas and a dark soggy mass of tealeaves.
‘How could Madame be so unkind to the child?’ she thought.
Then looking again she drew in her breath, for the doll was not only thrown away but had been deliberately torn to shreds.
The pretty bright-coloured leaves that formed the skirt had been ripped into shreds, the handkerchief, which had covered the hair, torn and the head half-pulled
