“If one was free,” she said, “one could go to him. 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. “Maternity,” she said, “has been our undoing. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. ‘To what do you go, mademoiselle? The life of a nun in a convent, in a country where nuns are unwelcome. All this was the work of a minute. You are to come home.
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