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. His nose was large but also fine and angular, tapering to a point at the end like a nobleman’s. He screamed in pain, doubling over with a howl as she stumbled out of the bed.
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