He seemed to be thinking hard. "It won't do, widow," said he, drawing near her, while she shrank from his approach, "so you may spare your breath. 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. Jonathan caught her in his arms. Sorry to be so nosy.
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