To-morrow I shall come and talk to you again—of other things. I'm neither an infidel nor an agnostic, so I'll content myself by saying that the hand of God is in this somewhere. 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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