Well, it had to happen somewhen. 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. Their eyes met, and his expressed perplexity and curiosity. There were moments when she thought of turning upon this man and talking to him. Nothing anyone could say or do would change him. A native sold his supply of nuts in exchange for cloth, tobacco and so forth.
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