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. Ah, but she could remember; and many things there were that she would never forgive. These convulsions occurred when Ann Veronica was about twelve. "Oh!" she gasped. ’ The lady opened her eyes very wide indeed. ’ ‘But you say that I was born here,’ objected Melusine. “I do mean that,” she declared. .
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