” He gave the note to the parlormaid the next morning in an inadvertent, casual manner just as he was leaving the house to catch his London train. She had not chosen her life, but she was foggy on whether or not it was right to deny others the right to join her in her suffering. But she doesn’t and won’t divorce me. 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. "No, I don't.
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