” “For the others,” Annabel said tearfully, “that is well enough. I wonder what men would say if we threw the mask aside—if we really told them what WE thought of them, really showed them what WE were. 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. "Let us hope that, like her who 'loved much,' her sins are forgiven her. Man or woman. Love is one thing and friendship quite another. He had died before they married, and when her brother became a widower she had come to his assistance and taken over much of the care of his youngest daughter.
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