There was a sharp knocking at the outside door. Then there was also the horse. Still, her face never betrayed this distraction. Don't unman 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'm not sure I'd go out with him anyway. She got out of bed, her eyes still half-closed, and stood slack jawed.
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