" "But not for me," growled Terence, in an under tone. Marry me. It's a pity you wouldn't give me the prescription instead of the medicine, so I could have it filled nearer home. 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.
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