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. “I will tell you when to stop. She got up, as she had been told to do, at his appearance, and he amazed her by sitting down, according to custom, on her stool. David left this afternoon. Ruth felt his hand grow cold as it slipped from hers.
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