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. Gerald smiled and crooked his elbow. But Manning seemed more and more clearly indicated as a refuge, as security. There was a wild light in her eye, and her straight hair was out demonstrating and suffragetting upon some independent notions of its own. One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms.
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