America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. “The fact is—I don’t know why—this takes me by surprise. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know. Would you mind drawing them back?” Ennison sprang up, but he never reached the curtains. 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. And don’t talk until we’re well out of earshot.
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