“How are you feeling?” She asked with grave concern in her voice. Between her and the fair, far prospect of freedom and self-development manoeuvred Mr. 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. ’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Miss Froxfield frostily.
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