With a rustle of her full lilac petticoats, Miss Froxfield turned back to Alderley. To her satisfaction, the captain reddened a trifle. E. What was she going to do? One main idea possessed her: she must get away from home, she must assert herself at once or perish. 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.
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