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. What would you? I cannot fight them all. Mr. “They’d better not,” said Hetty. He handed her a cheque for thirty-one pounds, ten shillings, and read the agreement through to her. I want to leave Paris to-day—this very day.
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