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. Her cheeks were the colour of chalk, her eyes were filled with terror. He had, however, planned brilliant careers for his two sons, and, with a certain human amount of warping and delay, they were pursuing these. We, ourselves, are scarcely the same we were twelve years ago.
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