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Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. "Or trying to be," answered the doctor. His wife met him at the door, and into her hands he delivered his little charge. " "As you please," returned Jack, leaping up; "but I feel devilishly inclined to finish him. 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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