“What a hypocrite you are. His revelry, however, was put an end at the expiration of the time mentioned by Jonathan, by the entrance of a posse of constables with Quilt Arnold and Abraham Mendez at their head. By now the horses would be rested and he might go as swiftly back again. 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. “They have no plans for us. At other times you seem so innocent that it breaks my heart, when you look at me like I’m your Prince Charming and you are depending on me to take you away to my castle in a world that doesn’t exist! I can take you away from this place. She gloried in it: he needed her. The unpleasant oily chill of fever overtook her body, and she watched in horror as Sebastian carried her to his bed on his shoulder like a sack of flour. Marry me. I didn’t think—I don’t know what I thought. Jonathan's wicked threat is fulfilled at last. On reflection, it occurred to him that he might, perhaps, be able to loosen the iron fillet; a notion no sooner conceived than executed.
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