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. She slipped on white thin-soled tennis shoes with no socks, her ankles exposed as Shari had once suggested they be worn. Spurlock offered his hand, which Ah Cum accepted gravely. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. ’ ‘Poor sort of a mother,’ Martha said with bitterness.
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