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. . Her evident terror and distress reinforced the tale he told. Two children, who had been caught in the jam-closet: ingratiating smiles, back of which lay doubt and fear. Ann Veronica decided to be more explicit. ’ ‘Do you take me for a fool, Hilary?’ demanded his betrothed.
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