They seemed the most wrapped things in all Ann Veronica’s wrappered world. “In the end,” it seemed to be thinking, “they embalmed me with the utmost respect—sound spices chosen to endure—the best! I took my world as I found it. 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. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. Shortly a man descended laboriously.
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