It's your eagerness that bothers me. “I wonder if they will seem altered,” she remarked for the third time. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. 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.
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