With a view to raise recruits for his corps, the warlike woollen-draper started for Lancashire, under the colour of a journey on business. 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. "What is this?" she wanted to know. " "Thieves!" exclaimed Mrs. 82 She was putting a manuscript away, gingerly locking its heavy tooled cover, but it was a huge, awkward tome. I’d ruin the things if I so much as touched one.
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