The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. Then I assumed a rather portentous manner to prepare him. The conditions are such as I think you will recognize the justice of. 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. ‘But do you not see that he will come again? I think it is better if you, both of you, go and leave me here to find—’ She broke off, looking away.
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