He wasn't satisfied with an assured income from the paper-mills your grandfather left us. 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. I could see his little animal brain churning away, inventing plans for me, formulating his revenge. Now, however, as Gerald watched them, their heads were together and they were murmuring in French. Evidently he was gazing at the dull red roofs of the city: but was he registering what he saw? Never glance sideways at man, the old Kanaka woman had said.
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