She heard him come in; the light burned on. She was frightfully hungry. Things hung for a moment in an awkward silence. 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. But Enschede took them as they came, without question. " So saying, he slung it upon his wrist.
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