She sat, crouched together, by the corner of the hearthrug under the bookcase that supported the pig’s skull, and looked into the fire and up at Ann Veronica’s face, and let herself go. “I want to ask you a question,” she said abruptly. What had urged her to wrench loose and fly was the guarding instinct of the good woman. Kneebone. Joyous, she felt the need of physical expression; and her body began to sway sinuously, to glide and turn and twist about the room.
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