She barely heard a word that Martin or Brown said, until Martin’s voice chimed. “That thing’s going on,” she told herself. And grasping the thick iron rod, she pushed with all her force against it, while Jack seconded her efforts from within. 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. “I’ll be here at one in the morning. " With this, he mounted his steed and rode off.
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