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. "Jack Sheppard had a visitor, I understand, yesterday, and may make an attempt to escape. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Her patience was waning fast. She had discussed the general question of supplies with the helpful landlady. Then he stood up and hailed a fiacre. "Hear me," he cried, restraining himself with difficulty. It is of no use. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. At the same time he comprehended that she was as pure and lovely as the white orchid of Borneo and that she did not carry that ridiculous shield called false modesty. If you talk of your faults, I shall talk of your splendors.
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