“To tell you the truth though, I am quite a stranger in London, and it occurred to me that Mr. ’ ‘You’re going?’ asked his friend, and the note of relief was marked. 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. He got out of the car and lifted her from the convertible before she could open the door.
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