She colored faintly. Hill was exchanging greetings with his hostess, and salutations around the table. "But she is a dear," said Angelina, timidly. "Perhaps things would have been different if she had lived. 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.
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