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. And, lastly, to the Seven Cities o' Refuge, in the New Mint. I have brought disgrace upon you, and I haven’t been the right sort of wife at all.
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