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. "Now, Jack," cried Thames, warmly grasping Sheppard's hand, "you are my friend again. There is nobody, then?" "Oh, there is an aunt.
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