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. John eased off. Gerald took Madame’s hand and kissed the fingers with a little more warmth than punctilio demanded. Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. A good deal of the food will be in tins. "But, if I should not return, take this purse to Edgeworth Bess.
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