Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. He made it impossible not to respond, his arms tightening deliciously around hers. A middle-aged countrywoman, plump of cheek, and a little shy. 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. Katy oozed money from every pore of her being. ” He seemed to be elaborating ideas as he talked. This is a case either of suicide or murder.
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