She tied the obi clumsily about her waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head. 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. There was no answer, just grunting, so she repeated the question in Latin, then in Greek, to which Rhea responded. He whispered in her ear.
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