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 was as pale as death, but she seemed to have lost the power of movement. Will you please—Not now, or I must go. The particulars of her engagement were very clear in her memory. Don't build your hopes too high; but I will do what I can.
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