And her kind of love forgives everything and anything but infidelity. 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. Ann Veronica had no answer for a moment. “I remember,” she said, “that the first night I saw you, you spoke of my sister as your friend. Her mind jumped with questions as fear raced through her and hardened into a bid for retaliation. The door closed softly upon her. "That's fine," said O'Higgins.
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