On the way he confessed. Though encumbered by his irons, his step was firm, and his demeanour dignified. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. 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. ‘What, miss?’ asked Jack Kimble from behind her. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely. The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way. Here, turnkey. “You’ve no right to badger me like this, Veronica,” he said.
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