I loitered in the shop as you chatted with the butcher’s girl. 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. This was enough for the poor widow. “He produced what he called a marriage certificate, and I believe that nearly every one in the boarding-house, including Mrs.
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