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. His voice now had lost its ironies. ” They talked for a while in somewhat dreamy fashion, Anna especially being more silent than usual. Though nearly dark, there was still light enough left to enable him to discern surrounding objects. After the twins were past the toddling age, Clotilde finally caught on when the children cleaved to Lucia’s breast when it was time to leave for a fortnight abroad. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold.
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