Yet she never once thought of changing it. She sat with him in the courtyard after serving him 20 spiced wine. So long as she stood beside him, he was safe. 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. He installed Anna in a comfortable easy chair, and placed his own between her and the door.
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