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 feared we might have a fog. Women and men had always flocked to him, covetous of his knowledge, his riches, and if all else failed, his carnal expertise.
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