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. The room was dark and dusty. I am the cause of his ill-usage. She mentally reprimanded herself to alter her own visage so as not to appear depraved.
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