She kept her eyes closed. She loved her mother Marina more than any other thing in the world and could not bear to speak to her for a fortnight after being told her fate. 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.
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