’ His colour deepened. ’—he’s frightfully anti-Mendelian—having it all their own way. It was horrible, but what could she do? She meant to live her own life, and he meant, with contempt and insults, to prevent her. 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 want you to be clear what you’re really and truly up to, anyhow.
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