His salvation—if there was to be any—lay in her ignorance of life. She plucked at the knots of her racket and heard him to the end, then spoke in a restrained undertone. 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. ‘The place was full of barbers and military men.
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