Look at the poor victim at your feet. 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. He patted the hand on his sleeve. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her. “Mary!” He whispered loudly.
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