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. ‘Then he went stark staring crazy, if you ask me. It lay undisturbed in the remotest corner of the recess. You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman—you wear different clothes, you have the air of another world.
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