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 had thought it a mirror, because it was her. On the contrary, it was impossible to look at him without perceiving that his resolution was unshaken. But in the train going home her aunt reasoned it out. When she released him he ran down the beach for a stick which he fetched and laid at her feet.
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This video was uploaded to thenextfuture.net on 22-09-2024 15:02:33
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