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 led him up the long hall solemnly. You will wonder why he did not hold the pearls until Father returned. “How have you been, my dear? Up to no good, I see.
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