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. It was neither good nor bad. ” “Annabel knew where I lived,” Anna continued slowly. She had only to get through this, to solace Manning as much as she could, to put such clumsy plasterings on his wounds as were possible, and then, anyhow, she would be free—free to put her fate to the test. This obstacle being removed, in his eagerness to proceed, he had forgotten to take his little charge with him. She laid her hand upon his arm.
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