He felt the first sting of the whip. ‘Which presupposes that she needs to hide at all. Perhaps these few words were the first real conscious words he had uttered in days. 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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