" "I cannot consent to it," replied Sir Rowland firmly. Sheppard, rushing from the adjoining room. ” She raised her eyebrows. 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 Plague raced through the city and the Palazzo, consuming it like fire.
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