The Girl, the Dog and the Writer in Rome

obviously mistaking them for some sort of snack — ate them. Freja clasped her hand over her mouth. Mrs Thompson sucked her teeth, grimaced and proceeded to open and close every door and drawer she could find — the dresser, the linen cupboard, the writing desk, Clementine’s filing cabinet. ‘Oh no,’ whispered Freja. ‘She’s a nosey one, a real snooper.’ That was bad news. Snoopers rarely left her alone. They wanted to find out what she looked like, why she was hiding beneath the table, whether they could coax her out. Sometimes they did coax her out, but then they seemed to regret the decision and would encourage her to hide once more. ‘People.’ Freja sighed and shook her head. Mrs Thompson shoved the filing-cabinet drawer back in. A book fell to the floor. ‘Boring scientists,’ she muttered and kicked it away across the floorboards. Freja gasped. ‘What sort of person kicks a book?’ she asked the wooden seal. The seal stared at her mournfully. Freja pressed her eye back against the hole in the cloth and watched in horror as Mrs Thompson shuffled closer and closer, until all Freja could see was a fleshy knee, just centimetres away. She held her breath. ‘Ah, what do I care?’ the woman snarled. ‘The child’s probably as nutty as the mother. All that camping out in remote places, gawping at nature,

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