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. " This simple admission disarmed McClintock. I just like you, Mary, and we’ve had a lot of fun. But his words were borne away by the driving wind. Wood started to his feet.
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