Still he looked hale and hearty, and the country life he led had imparted a ruddier glow to his cheek. ” “Then I was never married to him at all?” Annabel said. 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. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world.
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