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. I'm glad of it, I'm sure; for it's all owing to him his poor mother's here. The Becks were the best foster family that she had ever had. "He stands before you," rejoined her son.
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