He stopped abruptly. " "Who cares if we do?" retorted Sheppard, with a look of defiance. She descended the stairs, and found herself at last in the street—alone. 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. “You, too,” he said abruptly. I am gambling on his intuition.
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