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Perhaps, she may tell me whose picture this is. Michelle was too polite to put it into words. “I am sure of it. It struck his forehead, splitting it, and brought him to his knees. 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.
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