Anna stepped back at once with a little gasp of relief. 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. Two souls in travail; one inspired by fresh hopes, the other, by fresh despairs. It was your sister who married Sir John Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t it?” Anna nodded. ’ *** The tapping for which Melusine had been waiting came at last. All its better points were improved, while the less attractive ones (and they were few in comparison) were subdued, or removed. At any rate she must see me. This started a thought moving. “You see,” said Ann Veronica, with the air of one who shares a difficulty, “I’ve promised to go.
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