A middle-aged woman hunched on a chair. Glances round at me once, then twice, then gets up and leaves, trundling her bag behind her. On its little wheels. I disturbed her prayer, or maybe she was asleep. The bag looks like luggage. Outside, perhaps she waves her arm, catches a taxi to the railway station. In another half an hour she's on a train back home. Or maybe a plane, back to some European country. Maybe she came to London to visit a relative, a sister or a daughter, dying of cancer, and stopped to pray on her way to the station.

That painting she was sitting in front of - is it Jesus rising from the dead? Or is he bringing Lazarus back to life?

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