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. Sepulchre's clock struck eight. And then amusement crept into Alderley’s chest and he let his pistol hand fall. The rest she meant to keep for her immediate necessities.
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