His heart was beating, but faintly and slowly, with ominous intermissions. 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. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. He recognised Anna, and at once addressed her. .
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