The stranger looked at him as if strongly disposed to chastise his impertinence. A woman may choose any one for her lover, but for her friend she makes no mistake. Not one of them but bore the marks of having been engaged in a recent and severe conflict. Spurlock slept on. "I feel like work," he lied. 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 wore the most expensive athletic shoes money could buy in a fashionable black color with neon green laces. And Miss Miniver began to sway her. Yet he was in a state of hopeless bewilderment.
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