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. “Who from?” She met his eye for a second and her heart failed her. ” She looked at him with fluttering eyelids—sweetly grateful. Valade accorded the major’s greeting a brief nod and gave his attention back to St Erme.
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