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. He hung vaguely for a moment as she passed. She looked, Dorothée said, just as she always looks. Mother had met with him two years before to begin the process of finding a match. Alas! that the punishment of his offences should fall on her head. There were moments when Ann Veronica rather more than suspected the chief speakers to be, as school-boys say, showing off at her. It'll be advertised to-morrow.
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