Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape. 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. Meet me. "I am Owen Wood, at your service. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. I firmly believe that she is as straight as a die.
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