"Why does she weep?" Ruth wanted to know. 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. She tried to be casual. ’ Roding’s voice changed. The ladies can't sleep in their beds for him; and as to the men, they daren't go to bed at all. She had to think of something fast, or her reaction would start to make believers out of everyone. ‘But I will tell you this, mon vieux. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. Gods! what it must be to pour out strong, splendid verse—mighty lines! mighty lines! If I do, Ann Veronica, it will be you. . .
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