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. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. This became very interesting. She remembered that she had not gone to bed until two o'clock in the morning. It was, in fact, a group of interests quite unlike any other group, peculiar and special, and one to be thoroughly ashamed of. Winds returned, the gardens withered, and roses would not bloom. She loved her mother Marina more than any other thing in the world and could not bear to speak to her for a fortnight after being told her fate.
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