“Home, of course,” she answered. So the young fool had not told her! McClintock had suspected as much. 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. ‘Sleeping like a baby, he is.
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