She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. 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. " "Thank'ee, Sir," grinned Sheppard. She had never felt so acutely the desire for free initiative, for a life unhampered by others. ” “It ought to make one happy. Compared to most of America, you’re rich. "And you have seen … drunken men?" Prudence's tones were full of suppressed horror.
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