‘I’ll make it, miss. Ann Veronica had come down thinking of nothing in the world but her inflexible resolution to go to the dance in the teeth of all opposition. Sir John looked about him, and somehow the laugh died away. “When can we be alone together?” She asked him, never loosening her grip. For Ruth grew lovelier as the days went on. 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. To witness this girl sewing on a loose button, flopping the coat about on her knees, tickled his ironic sense of humour; and laughter bubbled into his throat. Thank him, not me, man. ‘No doubt accompanied by the latest crim con tales.
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