Part of his head was swathed in linen bandages. A brief feeling of empathy with Pottiswick passed through him. Now, it won't do a bit of good to warn Spurlock. God only knows what I have done, or left undone. 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. Earles protested, seating himself before the desk, and dipping his pen in the ink.
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