She was too delicate, too fragile to survive out there. Two of these had been her particular intimates at the High School, and had done much to send her mind exploring beyond the limits of the available literature at home. 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. For some time after he was locked up in this prison Jack continued in a very dejected state. “Good-bye, John,” she said simply. “What’s odd?” “Oh, everything!” She shivered, and went to the fire and poked it.
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