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. Lord, but it was a nun! Just as he had suspected. "It's a whale of a place. ’ Then she frowned. "I couldn't bear to see you in it.
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