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. “Please stop, cabman,” she ordered. They set about everyone—everyone. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am. He must win this man's confidence, even at the risk of being called mad.
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