’ Then she came closer and put her hand on his chest so that it rested on the braid that decorated his scarlet coat. 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. I HAD to. Guiding this man of hers over the troubled sea of life had engraved these lines.
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