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. She wished that the drive would never end, but it was only three miles after all. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. Women are not in the world in the same sense that men are—fighting individuals in a scramble. I am sorry to seem to disobey you, but I am.
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