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’m not such a bad sort. ‘And I wouldn’t be no sort of a man if I’d heard what I heard, and gone off and left you. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice.
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