“It was perhaps my fault. What was the alternative to going home? No alternative appeared in that darkness. 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. ‘Oh, you may come to me on any mission you like,’ uttered Mrs Sindlesham roguishly. Nobody regards Constance or Vee as a delicate trifle. Charcoal.
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