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. The change in her face was not a pleasant one. He saw his father, calling to him from an icy white tunnel, beckoning to him. "It's all over," groaned Wood, "and perhaps it's as well her senses are gone. . 7. " "Where did he get it?" inquired Wood, in surprise. Taber's room at once," Ruth ordered.
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