The horror of those few minutes was still with her. A week later the manuscript was polished and typewritten, ready for the test. She glanced at him and made a dismissive gesture. 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. As she did so the preparation-room door opened behind her. " "You, Miss Enschede?"—frankly astonished that one stranger should offer succour to another. “I’m sorry Mister McCloskey! I was out seeing my boyfriend!” He stared at her concernedly.
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