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. Under happier circumstances nothing would have given me more pleasure than to have offered you a home with your sister. His face brightened at the sight of her, and he came toward her.
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