The office of the Madame. It has a kind of sleazy glamour. Gaslamps with pink tinged mantels cast a rosy glow over flocked wallpapers, hung with framed pictures of erotica, gilded statuettes of naked girls, nymphs in various states of undress etc, an ornate gold mirror, velvet curtains drawn tight, an oppressive airless subterranean feeling. A young girl, eleven or twelve, HETTY... We’ve met her before. She is beautifully, expensively dressed, ringletted hair. The very epitome of adored Victorian girlhood. Her eyes are downcast, shoulders miserably hunched as The MADAME of the brothel, a woman for whom nothing is surprising or shocking, (though nor is anything wondrous) appraises her with a professional eye, turns her this way and that, tilts her chin, feels the flesh of her arm, her shoul