’ Her gaze followed the butler, who was moving towards the door. These daughters! He gnawed his pen and reflected, tore the sheet up, and began again. It is Anna again who stands between me and ruin. 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.
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