Everything was done in a genteel and ordinary way, but on the other hand, there was no lingering. He was now within a foot of the bar, and introducing himself into the hole, speedily worked his way to it. 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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