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. Gerald tried it. One Friday afternoon, in this pleasant month, it chanced that Mr. ’ ‘Well, but he was a deserter, you see. ’ ‘To you,’ she said angrily. “Perhaps. ” She paused for a moment.
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