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. "I'll go to her directly," said Wood, bustling towards the door. At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead. He was asleep. "My lips would belie my heart were I to refuse you. After all, she was a consummate actress. I was quite as much annoyed as you were to see Mr.
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