There was not a corner in which one could possibly pray.

Only these two iron seats, one each side of the gaunt gas lamp that glared down upon them.

Even the withered shrubs were fenced off behind a railing.

A ragged figure sprawled upon the bench opposite to her.

It snored gently, and its breath came laden with the odour of cheap whisky.
But it was her Gethsemane: the best that Fate had been able to do for her.