The Girl, the Dog and the Writer in Rome

out a large, tangled clump of yarn. She frowned and her chin quivered. ‘Why, that’s … that’s …’ ‘Wool,’ Freja whispered. Clementine’s hand flew to her chest. ‘Wool,’ echoed Mrs Thompson. Then, noticing her ravaged cardigan, she gasped. ‘My sleeve!’ A choking sound forced its way from her throat. She heaved her bulk out of the lounge and glared at Freja. Sweeping her knitting bag up into her arms, she stomped out of the house, slamming the front door behind her. The brass knob popped off and rolled around on the floor. The house fell silent. Freja bit her wobbling bottom lip. Clementine flopped onto the lounge and patted the seat beside her. ‘Freja,’ she said. ‘We need to talk.’

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