“My husband knows all. He sent me home. . 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. What of madame, his wife?’ ‘You know more of her than me,’ the girl said with a look of scorn.
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