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. She evolved a dim image of herself cooped up in a house under the benevolent shadow of Mr. “Why not?” “Because you are mine. He took about five minutes.
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