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. She had just managed to reach it, grabbing for the handle, when the enemy’s cracked command halted her. I don’t know. Between the Jew and the attendant came Jack Sheppard; while a crowd of servants, attracted by the news, that the investigation of a robbery was going forward, lingered at the doorway in hopes of catching something of the proceedings. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. She twanged the catgut under her fingers. Then she examined with curiosity some knick-knacks upon a small round table by her side.
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