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. "Mercy on us! Well, I thought their manners quite out o' the common. Gerald’s chest tightened. "You are an angel," she cried, with a look beaming with delight.
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