"Mine died while I was over here. 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. That’s my point. Stanley pointed to the letter with a pipe he had drawn from his jacket pocket. One cannot trust any man at all.
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