‘Certainly, if I was a nun, I know of many good names. Remember, in your story—look at it, scattered everywhere!—that line? We arrive at true happiness only through labyrinths of misery. “That sounds quite absurd,” she answered. Eventually her movements carried her to the little stand at the side of the bed. I'm going through his pockets. 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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