82 She was putting a manuscript away, gingerly locking its heavy tooled cover, but it was a huge, awkward tome. 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's had a hard knock somewhere; and until he is strong enough to walk, we must keep his interest away from that thought.
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