I do not even know his name. 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. The young male, as she had actually seen him, had been of the sailor type, hard-bitten, primordial, ruthless.
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