She threw her arms around Rollo's neck and laid her cheek upon the flea-bitten head. 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 he needed was not a food but a flavour; and the cocoanut taste of the chestnuts soothed his burning tongue and throat. “It is a secret mission,” she declared. "I can't hold it much longer—it'll break my wrist. He proceeded to the deck, where Ruth and McClintock were waiting for him by the ladder.
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