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. ‘Well she does,’ insisted Miss Froxfield impenitently, and turned to Gerald. But this I cannot do. “I ought to look up Gwen,” she said. Lucy stole her last chance to observe Martin Chen, looking provocatively into his 257 eyes as the door was shut.
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