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. Immediately a feathered hat emerged, under which a familiar countenance was visible. But he might have broken out of prison, and yet not got over the wall of Clerkenwell Bridewell. She began rubbing it with her pocket-handkerchief. For a moment none of them stirred; then slowly Enschede turned away.
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