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. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. I warned her not to say a word, for it would mean the death of everyone in the Palazzo, including you. You hear what I say, Quilt?" he added, looking at Jack. “You mustn’t talk any more,” he said, “but I want you to listen to me just for a moment.
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