They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. 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. . " "And all the time you loved her?"—appalled. She found herself talking to Capes in an undertone of rational admission. ‘Until today.
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