“Were you ever in love, aunt?” she asked. 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. "No more, please! I am bewildered enough. ” He was a little uneasy. So she took up Stevenson and began to read aloud.
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