’ Kimble frowned direfully, staring at the weapon with its gold hilt and decorative pattern down the blade. 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. Befuddle yourself, if you want to. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. A distant suggestion of chalets and a glimpse of the road set them talking for a time of the world they had left behind. My little maidservant will think that I am lost.
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