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. It was a shame that they had made such a fuss, she thought as he arrived. 9. . So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. Tell Lucy about the time you were nine years old and blew up the house, John. On the present occasion, he appeared to have bestowed more than ordinary attention on his toilette.
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