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. Ruth's mind was fertile soil; for a long time to come it would be something of a hothouse: green things would spring up and blossom overnight. ‘Neither do I,’ he responded, frowning, ‘but for Gerald’s sake, I’ll do anything I can. " "A capital caricature that," remarked Thornhill, laughing.
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