Upon my word, Anna,” she declared, with a strange little laugh, “you are a thousand times more like me as I was two months ago than I am myself. “It’s like this,” he said, and dragged a stool beside her and sat down with his elbow four inches from hers and made a sketch. His voice propelled her to cry even harder, so hard that she began to laugh behind her tears. 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 am. ‘She knows them.
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