“Before this there was a sort of restraint—a make-believe. 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. All my life I've had to fight human wolves to hold what I have. "Vot are you?" "Practising patience," growled Abraham. It was now whitening, hissing, and seething like an enormous cauldron.
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