It was an impulse. We have played at a little mild lovemaking again. She had turned round sideways, so as to look down into the fire. Strange, I could never learn her history. Instead had come this storm, this shouting, this weeping, this confusion of threats and irrelevant appeals. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull.
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