At first she thought that the woman was just a servant. 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. " Still the voice was without emotion; calm, colourless. Annabel a murderess! It was not possible. I’m not a bit afraid of anything—scandal, difficulty, struggle.
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