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. Maggot. I thought you understood. But the relief from the strain of her immediate necessities was immense. “Oh, Veronica!” she said, “to leave your home!” She had been weeping.
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