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. ‘Your master in?’ he demanded of the astonished footman, removing his cockaded hat and handing it over. She lit the cigarette with a tiny Kelly green drugstore lighter.
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