But they did what they could for her. 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. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. She pawed at him, her hunger for his body making her dizzy with anticipation. Indeed I must. " "Didn't the natives have a name for you?" She blushed. ‘How the deuce did she get out without me seeing her?’ ‘Took advantage of the distraction, cunning little devil,’ Gerald snapped, racing down the corridor.
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