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 has lost something,” he declared, “something which brought the men in crowds around the stage at the ‘Ambassador’s. Was he your natural father? Did you know him?” “No, I didn’t.
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