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. But if she smiled at all it was with her eyes. ’ She sagged a little suddenly, as if the painful memories in her mind had exhausted her body. I doubt I hold any interest for him anymore.
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