Wood!" exclaimed Jack, in surprise. She could not see any relief from this anxiety except repayment, and repayment seemed impossible. 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'll tote it myself.
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