He kissed her neck, moving down to her breasts, trying to consume her with passion. 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. One would think I had agreed to her going. . I can’t do it even decently myself, and I dare not run the risk of ruining all my clothes. A mate? A brother-lover to tromp about the world with? “I cannot. More than ever Sir John was glad that he had sat down. Tell me.
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