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. It'll be turning over to-morrow. I was looking for rooms last week. "What are you waiting for?" asked Jack, impatiently. They were delighted.
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