CHAPTER XXVIII. But why this part of the plan now seemed to her quite unattractive was a question she did not care to examine too closely. 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'm not particular what or where. It isn't for their sakes, it's for your own. There were white men with families, a fine mission-house, and a club-house for cards and billiards.
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