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. Her back arched and she felt herself instinctively sinking into him. He measured out the portion of another peg, the bottle wavering in his hand. You are afraid of the warmth in your blood. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self.
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