But it's French manners, I suppose. 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. But McClintock's mind was perceptive, whereas Spurlock's was only dully confused. Sometimes a whole morning would pass without Spurlock uttering a word beyond the request for a drink of water. The morning swims in the lagoon had thickened the red corpuscle.
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