She gently placed the car back upon the ground. Amid this varied throng,—varied in appearance, but alike in character,—one object alone, we have said, rivetted Mrs. 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. What could I do at home? The other’s a crumple-up—just surrender.
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