It had ceased now, but as he closed in on the area, a faint muttering came to his ears. I must practise what I preach. He was only a younger son, and you know what trouble we had. 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. It's certain.
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