As though it was indelicate—it’s just a sort of shyness. Run along while I rig up and get the part in my hair straight. 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. But it’s as you say. I suppose I ought to have been a man. I want to know who sent you those. McClintock laughed as he gave the letter to Ruth.
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