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. In fact he was thinking of other things. That he was hot and breathless was of no matter; in that moment he would have faced a dozen Samsons. ” “Say that again, Lucy, so that the rest of them hear it. If you had not brought your companion here, it would not have happened.
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