Her girl Clarice was next, dying within a single day, blood leaking from her pretty brown eyes like an image of the Blessed Virgin. She remained by the door until the walls of the city swallowed the bobbing lantern. He recognized the face instantly. Upon what this instinct was based she could not say; she was conscious only of its insistence. 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.
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