Barrow Fields the worst thing about prison was the dementors

mahler was not a man to follow, let alone the whims of a woman, but here he did, enjoying the small flourishes of her sootblack feet. that she was beautiful registered only dimly on the hazy screen of his mind — mahler would place her in the trim pile labeled "aesthetically pleasant," and continue on his way. 
the woman finished with a little dégagé and a cut of her slim muzzle the opposite way, and the musiker stilled himself to regard her with a searching look that swam up through the debris of his cold features and touch it with a tangible curiosity.
"mahler," the dappled brute offered in the next moment, holding the syllables of his own name forth with only the barest hint of vanity.