Jack had thus been six hours in accomplishing his arduous task. ‘He lacked moral fibre, did Nicholas. 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. We haven’t. He was scarcely concealed when he heard the horsemen, who perceived they had overshot their mark, ride back. If hopeless love for her made me a robber, it has also saved me many a crime.
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