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. So he marched into the street, primarily bent upon making the favourable discovery. On a sudden, a change came over her countenance, which, up to this moment, had worn a smiling and satisfied expression. He never retires to rest till daybreak—if at all.
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