Peg after peg had gone down his blistered throat, but never had a smile touched his lips, never had his gaze roved inquisitively. Likely as not outside the law, too. 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. She had become neutral towards him and he had used the lesson to try to advance himself. Martin’s crush.
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