Sheppard, who made no resistance, along with him, entered the house, the door of which was instantly shut and barricaded. 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. Awful shapes seemed to flit by, borne on the wings of the tempest, animating and directing its fury. But he was a thief, a fugitive from justice. Someone bounded up the stairs, which groaned from the strain, unmistakably Mike.
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