“It’s—private. A brisk talk sprang up between Capes and Mr. The man himself was not a pleasant object. 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 was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out.
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