132 “I thought you wanted me—you told me so when we kissed in the park!” He cried. 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. “You will come back, won’t you?” He nodded cheerfully. "He has heard of your wonderful escapes, and wishes to see what you're like. I can never be grateful enough.
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