“Did it seem like I was in pain to you?” She smirked. They drove rapidly through the emptying streets. 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 cannot part with him," replied the widow, bursting into tears; "indeed, indeed, I cannot.
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