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. They are arbitrary and unjust and dogmatic and brutish and lustful. Except for one memorable school excursion to Paris, Ann Veronica had never yet been outside England. Perhaps it was loneliness. Paris, 18. Ann Veronica passed from her aunt to her father, and put her arms about him and kissed his cheek.
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