“Get you a cold one?” “No thanks. But two weeks later he returned. How are you?” “I’m fine,” she said, unaware of all events except for the voice on the other line. 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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