But the wench who tricked me shall bitterly repent it. “You will not give Sir John any cause for jealousy? You will have no secrets from him except—concerning those things which are past?” “Anna, I swear it!” her sister sobbed. The touch of her hands was pleasurable. 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 took her hat from the peg in the corner and began to put it on. “You must have heard—have you—oh, tell me, won’t you?” she begged. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. Women, she had been taught, who exposed the flesh of their bodies under the eyes of man were in a special catagory of the damned. Ann Veronica halted a pace, and Miss Klegg came alongside.
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