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. Of late, however, his plotting had assumed a more dark and dangerous complexion. The moon had arisen, and everything could be as plainly distinguished as during the day.
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