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. “His dress for no man lays a snare; A man scores always, everywhere. “I wish this hadn’t turned up to-day of all days. “He fell over at my feet,” she continued. “You see, Vee,” said Mrs.
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