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. His perseverance was amply rewarded. She stood there limply and did not act to resist him. He comforted himself, however, with the certainty which he felt of capturing his prey on the Sunday. She seemed bursting with the desire to talk, and watching for her opportunity.
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