She brought the cups of cocoa back to the bedroom. 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. She felt his crotch through his jeans. She was a schizophrenic, got locked up later in some sort of state mental ward. ” “That’s the comfort of you. He’s the handle of life for you. His lovely black eyes softened until they became like languid as the night sky. She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners.
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