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. The elastic spirits of youth resumed their sway; and, before the coach stopped, his tears had ceased to flow. Leonardo had not taught her to do so. “Why not?” He asked. Perhaps the old fool was not as fanciful as they had thought. She did not want to feel such negative emotion towards any member of her foster family.
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