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. ’ He turned to Melusine, ignoring the indignant protest that greeted his words. He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself. ‘Now see here, missie. .
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