Spurlock knew that somewhere along the way he would write a story worth while. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. ’ So saying, he pulled her forward, slipping her arms about his back. 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 looks so French to be affectionate. If only he had known it, sympathy was almost entirely with him.
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