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. She spoke with a certain odd deliberation carefully chosen words which fell like drops of ice upon the man who sat listening. Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading.
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