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. ‘You can if you like. Then, her body still tense with the atoms of anger, she sat down upon the edge of the bed and rocked from side to side. ‘To read and write, of course, and to sew. ’ ‘And your precious vicomte didn’t wish for the English one,’ said Charvill, acid in his voice.
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