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. It was hard to meet that gaze. His arms slipped around her waist as they were on the doorstep and he kissed her lips sweetly. Hill would have followed her, but Mrs. He called a waiter.
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