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. "Who is it, Bess?" "How should I know?" replied Edgeworth Bess. Opening the trap-door, he then descended to the vaults —searched each cell, and every nook and corner separately.
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