It was always the same,
this joy in power she manifested, peculiarly in power over any male
being. He blinked forbearingly, with a male, bored expression, licking
his whiskers. Hermione laughed in her short, grunting fashion.
'Ecco, il bravo ragazzo, come e superbo, questo!'
She made a vivid picture, so calm and strange with the cat. She had a
true static impressiveness, she was a social artist in some ways.
The cat refused to look at her, indifferently avoided her fingers, and
began to drink again, his nose down to the cream, perfectly balanced,
as he lapped with his odd little click.
'It's bad for him, teaching him to eat at table,' said Birkin.
'Yes,' said Hermione, easily assenting.
Then, looking down at the cat, she resumed her old, mocking, humorous
sing-song.
'Ti imparano fare brutte cose, brutte cose--'
She lifted the Mino's white chin on her forefinger, slowly. The young
cat looked round with a supremely forbearing air, avoided seeing
anything, withdrew his chin, and began to wash his face with his paw.
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