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A tall elegantly dressed woman, followed by a maid, came down the broad staircase. 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 is, in her way, a dear. He touched her breast as if he was testing the waters of a cold lake. She held out her arm straight before her, and turned her hand this way and that. What do you mean by calling me wretch, Madam!" she added marching up to Mrs. Her eyes where glassy and shining. ‘Don’t, miss,’ uttered the boy. He had said so.
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