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" "Your hesitation is not in your favour," observed Trenchard, sternly. 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. ’ ‘Never mind the comtesse,’ adjured Prudence. Her sense followed the shoulders under his coat, down to where his flexible, sensitive-looking hand rested lightly upon the table. I want to get away.

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