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. “You cannot seriously believe,” he said, “that at the present moment I care a snap of the fingers whether I have any dinner or not. He went in there, and he was in there for a good half hour. That’s as far as we go.
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