You had better go to bed. Four prisoners, termed "The Partners," had charge of this hold. 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. When they reached her rooms she stepped lightly out upon the pavement. But there was nothing in her bearing that a passer-by would have noted, to tell of the excitement that possessed her.
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