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Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. “Round midnight, I think. Framed in one of the square ports of the packet was a face which reminded Ah Cum of a Japanese theatrical mask. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. Drink the toast, Jack. Some indeed carried themselves, dressed themselves even, rather as foreign visitors from the land of “Looking Backward” and “News from Nowhere” than as the indigenous Londoners they were. She feared he might take her tears as a sign of weakness.
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