It was the grand nursery of vice. There was a discreet knocking at the door, and Ramage’s face changed. After that night she made it a habit. '—'They can't,' says I. “I wonder if there is anything wrong with my manners,” she said. 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.
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