She possessed what he affected to despise, but secretly worshipped—the innate charm of breeding. " "Never," replied Winifred. ‘From the convent, where else?’ ‘It does not strike me that you can possibly have been in a convent. 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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