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. Laying these carefully aside, he restored the drawer to its place. ’ ‘Parbleu,’ exclaimed the girl, jumping up in some dudgeon. Neither your aunt nor I have any other thought but what is best for you.
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