Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. Wild here presently. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. I’ve never wanted to get away so much. I secured the dog after he had wounded me. The proa bore away to the northwest out of which it had come. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred.
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