Had he but known it, his outburst had done him no harm in the major’s eyes. 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. It was free of leering men, unthinkable punishments, and human evil. It is very bad. Only you good ones— shirk.
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