She read voraciously, and presently, because of her aunt’s censorship, she took to smuggling any books she thought might be prohibited instead of bringing them home openly, and she went to the theatre whenever she could produce an acceptable friend to accompany her. 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. "Well—well," grumbled Jonathan, "I suppose I must be content. The guineas are not for serving your mistress. " "Not quite, I hope," rejoined Sheppard. On the north stood the battlements of one of the towers of the gate. That—that isn’t living! You are beside yourself.
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