"Don't think. Come and talk to me, little—little dear one."
She bent her head lower still. "I'm thinking," she said again.
"Come and tell me what you're thinking."
"I'm thinking about cats."
"About cats?" said Mr. Twist, uncertainly.
"Yes," said Anna-Rose, stroking the cat's stomach faster and carefully keeping her face hidden from him. "About how wise and wonderful they are."
"Well then if that's all, you can go on with that presently and come and talk to me now."
"You see," said Anna-Rose, not heeding this, "they're invariably twins, and more than twins, for they're often fours and sometimes sixes, but still they sit in the sun quietly all their lives and don't mind a bit what their—what their twins do—"
"Ah," said Mr. Twist. "Now I'm getting there."
"They don't mind a bit about anything. They just clean their whiskers and they purr. Perhaps it's that that comforts them. Perhaps if I—if I had whiskers and a—and a purr—"