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. “What’s the objection?” “I suppose she ought to know?” said Gwen to her mother, trying to alter the key of the conversation. Her voice was weak and flat. ‘Do not speak of him. "Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried. ‘You see, Melusine, that none of our visitors were as informed as they would wish to be. Sometimes I think she’s tired of us.
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