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. Sir John followed her gaze, and also saw them. Denis, did you say? I hope that no one of our friends has met with an accident. ‘Sapristi,’ he gasped. “I believe it is.
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