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. In this state Mrs. Brown broke the silence. Where is he?" "Here," answered Jack. "What is all this, dear Winny?" inquired Thames, as soon as they were alone.
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