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. "You poor child!" said Prudence. I tried it myself, Sir. "Your ladyship has never been well since you married Sir Cecil," rejoined Mrs. ” “YOU ASKED YOUR FATHER FOR A REASON!” said Miss Miniver, with great intensity.
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