But before the Grieg concerto was done, she knew that she was free. The great ordeal—that which she had most dreaded—had proved to be no ordeal at all. . 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. Then he lifted the black cloak-like garment from the floor. Just what in the world was that about? Before he could hazard a guess, Lucy looked back at him. She drew it out with shaking fingers.
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