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. Faintly bothered by what it might mean, Gerald rose from his seat and crossed to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine. “Who did you live with before the Becks? I hear things. I love you still, Anna, but life holds other things than the love of man for woman. ” “Then there is also,” Anna remarked, “a Montague Hill who is very much alive. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts.
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