He kissed her fingers and grinned. 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. “His stipend forbade it,” she said, and seemed to fall into a train of thought. In the upper hall he paused to listen. Womanhood is sacred to me.
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