“No thanks, Cathy. 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. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love.
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