She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. 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 violence of the collision nearly threw him backwards, and caused him to swerve as he sprang.
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