It was not a hopeful looking group. 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. She had a warm, fun-loving personality, and an unflattering disrespect for her future husband’s authority. We have a great deal to discuss, you and I. He suddenly realized that he could not keep you for ever in this part of the world; so he sends you to your aunt. Spurling, "I hope he may never see Tyburn. Not MY affair.
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