And the fact that it was dressed in riding gear had fooled her into thinking it was her own image. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. ” She massaged him. No offence, I hope. Profoundly. I want to be with you. 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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