One of the shutters was a trifle damaged, letting in added light. 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. ‘Well, only look what’s come of it. What would happen when next morning she returned to Morningside Park? He couldn’t turn her out of doors. " "But that's the point—I don't know. The boy was right.
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