There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. 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. " "Won't you take me?" "No; you must await my return here. He had been back for two weeks during some pleasant weather in July.
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