Somebody to depend upon her; somebody to have need of her, if only for a little while. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a soul with clean ideals. 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 mistake,—you are mine. For ten years I've been trying to go home, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient. I never even burrowed down into the trunk.
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