” “It was Cheveney!” he said slowly. " "I'm sorry I can't indulge you," replied her master, a little piqued. 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. Open it. It is magnificent indeed. " "No, Sir Rowland.
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