Ruth's emotion was a primitive joy: she was essential in this man's life, and she would always be happy because he would always be needing her. 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. He'll be able to help us a little now.
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