. 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. The evenings were beginning to draw out, and it would not be dark for an hour. " Bamboo and bead tinkled and slithered behind him. Why can’t you let it be?’ Gerald grinned at him.
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