Not so Gosse. The mob pursued the thief-taker and his party all the way, and such missiles as could be collected were hurled at them. The applause was uproarious at the end of the concert. 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.
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