Judith takes rushes from the floor of the workshop, one by one, hides them in the folds of her skirt. She slips through the gap when no one is looking and weaves the rushes into a roof. The kittens, who are cats now, slink in after her, two of them, with identical striped faces and white-socked feet. Then she may sit there, hands folded, and let him come, if he will. She sings to herself, to the cats, to the rush roof above her, a string of notes and words,
