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. ” He plunged into one of his drawers, and brought up a small gold-foiled bottle. Sheppard trembled violently; and though she understood his meaning too well, she answered,—"I can't guess.
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