She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. One night she apparently fell asleep. 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. She would be haunted by the visions of their mad faces in her dreams for the next hundred years.
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