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. Here and there, a rectangular patch, darker than the rest, showed that some had been removed. ” John tried to direct the topic away from him. She twanged the catgut under her fingers. ‘We mean you no harm,’ he said reassuringly. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved.
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