She was the actress his whim had chosen to play a passive part. 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 felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. He meant to take her out of this room, perhaps even out of the house. What about them?” He called a hansom. Rain started to pummel the roof of the pavilion, which coalesced into sheets and rumbled to the cement below. The young man looked at her.
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