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. Well, my dear, it is time you stopped wallowing in your sorrows like a common wretch. “It is like old times,” she said, “to hear these home truths. ” She propped herself up on the massive oaken post of the bed, feeling the paralysis tingle her legs as it left them ever so slowly. The walls were pristine white and unmarked except for two sconces and a rather colorless Monet poster that had been framed in an expensive oak surround. Disillusion stands in one doorway of our house and Mockery in the other. The oaken beam, nine inches in thickness, was now the sole but most formidable obstacle to his flight.
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