“The surgeon’s knife is surely a kindly weapon,” she declared. To-night there seemed to be a new brilliancy in her eyes, a deeper quality in her tone. 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. You are afraid—that here in London—I shall not be a success.
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