I'll wait for you down here. Her hair was the one part of her that did not exude the air of wealth. 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. He often wanted only to drive with her in the car, both of them staring at the scenery in silence for hours.
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