Her eyes travelled about the room as if in appeal to the very chairs. 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. Lucy asked Michelle if “Pfister” kept the bras and panties of misfits for their trophy value, or perhaps sold them on the black market to perverted old men. "Jack!" she cried, raising her head.
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