She had lost her nerve, and there was no more freedom in London for her that night. ” “Why? What did Missy ever do to piss her off? What did I do?” Lucy asked, growing defensive. 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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