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. Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving. Spurling and Marvel rose too. Both of them. But when she reached the pavement outside her teeth were clenched, and she carried herself unconsciously an inch or so higher.
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