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. ” She gave herself permission now to look at this squarely. ” She knelt upon the floor of her cell and clasped her hands, and remained for a long time in silence. .
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