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. To O'Higgins—for all his sordid business he was not insensible to beauty—to O'Higgins she appeared to have entered the room with the light. ’ ‘It is well seen you are not Gérard,’ Melusine said, but thankful now that he was not. And let's see if either of these women, who prate of their love for you, will do as much.
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