"There'll be a louder echo here presently," thought Jonathan. " "For a bit of kindness?" Ruth was plainly bewildered. 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 sorry to hurt your feelings. But it means no end of a row.
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