The father would be all steel. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love. She dragged the broken bottle across her carotid artery, creating an inch-deep gash upon her throat. She got up, as she had been told to do, at his appearance, and he amazed her by sitting down, according to custom, on her stool. She would just have to show up and hope for the best. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. ‘We mean you no harm,’ he said reassuringly. ’ ‘It could hardly be less so,’ said Mrs Sindlesham tartly. “Let’s hope your successor is worthy of you.
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