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. "Ah!" she screamed, seeing the uplifted weapon in Sheppard's hand, "don't hurt Thames—don't, dear Jack! If you want to kill somebody, kill me, not him. I love him as a brother. Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent. ‘She’s an eviltempered little termagant, yes, but there’s no malice aforethought. I've got an address here.
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