I found it on the beach, just sitting there nestled inside a piece of driftwood. 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 pause lengthened, and he had the satisfaction of seeing despair melt the set mockery of Spurlock's mouth. She and her husband have no children and ten computers. This double buffetting had sharpened her shrewdness and insight. Across that world was written in letters of light, “Endowment of Motherhood.
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