She answered in whispers, for there was the white arm of a woman in the next box peeping beyond the partition within a yard of him. 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. CHAPTER XIV. "I am too much honoured—too happy in the union. I wanted to speak to you first. She was certain he would hear, sleeping in the nearby castle.
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