“I don’t love him,” said Ann Veronica, getting a gleam. She tried not to blush. Then she realized that it was her business to let Manning talk and impose his own interpretations upon the situation so far as he was concerned. 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.
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