Her eyebrows were lifted in expostulation. ‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir. “Young lady! Are you sure you’re of legal age to be smoking those cigarettes?” “No, I’m not of legal age. 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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