The winter of 1348 seemed to last an eternity, but the Pestilence struck in one day. He righted a chair and sat in it, his face in his hands. ‘How do you like England?’ ‘People have been very kind,’ Valade said, answering for them both. 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. They had chosen to deliberately and wickedly insult a lady who had done her best to entertain them for many weeks. The ambitions of his life, and they were many, seemed to lie far away, broken up dreams in some outside world where the way was rough and the sky always grey. "What?—help take care of him? Why, you can't do that, Miss Enschede!" was the protest. That was one of the mysterious qualities of this child of the lagoon: she had always at instant service that Oriental mask of impenetrable calm that no Occidental trick could dislodge. But for him she might have been alive and happy.
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