Murder had become nothing to 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. "She considers her future blasted beyond hope. After all, if one could wait twenty years or more in between bouts of lovemaking, one could certainly wait a few more days. “It is strange that we should have met Annabel,” she said. She turned her head to each side. Play fair with her. They blinded me.
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