‘You said?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham, your great-aunt, miss. She chuckled. ’ She shuddered, throwing her hands over her face. Get the pole out of your ass. 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.
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