He had quite enough to see to and worry about in the City without their doing things. There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night. I just wanted a breath of air. 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.
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