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. ‘You must think me a fool, mademoiselle. And yet—you millionaires should really, I think, cultivate the art of discrimination. That delightful sense of free, unembarrassed movement was gone. As absurd as that you take this interest in my affairs. “Oh, John, please!” “You are already leaving me.
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