" "Well, for my part," observed Mrs. She reeled in excitement, she unzipped his pants while kissing him, trying not to let herself stop touching him as she unclothed him. 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 will never wed you.
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