He placed his chin upon the top of her head. Which was not to say that ladies were not interested in him. “You are too good for me,” she said in a low voice. 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 remained talking with her however.
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