She ran to the lamp and extinguished it. “Exactly. 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. His vision was becoming accustomed to the faint light now and her features were clearer. The first person who issued from the Lodge was Mr. “Stop! Don’t put your face there.
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