She loved her mother Marina more than any other thing in the world and could not bear to speak to her for a fortnight after being told her fate. “But your sister,” he said. “They are coming past our table. Some shadow of reserve seemed to have crept up between them. Her knees were trembling, her whole frame was shaken with sobs. The thought of the picture but added to her despondency. 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. “I think everything’s right,” said Ann Veronica, with the roaming eye of a capable but not devoted house-mistress.
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