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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. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. Sheppard. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. “It isn’t only the dance,” she said. If she had once known him, if he were some former neighbour, it would be comprehensible. ‘Well, water under the bridge is that, miss.
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