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. Presently the odour of burnt powder mingled agreeably with that of the incense. . But once he had steered the lady down the hall and along a passage to a window seat at the end, he abandoned the subject of society. None at all. “Won’t you tell me why you have come to England?” she said. I'm used to insult as I am to misfortune, and am grown callous to both; but I'm not used to compassion, and know not how to take it. I understand.
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