. “Oh dear, I’m not dressed. When I promised to marry you I thought I could; I thought it was a possible arrangement. I'm a graybeard, an old bachelor; so I am accorded certain privileges. 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. “Many nights I have thought of you, Anna.
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