"He's audacity enough for anything. God must love me, for he has guided me here. Kneebone, I'll make one of the party. These joyful bounds just lace into the stuff of my memories and stay there forever. 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 often wonder why the young always take us ancients for nambypamby creatures. I could not love you else. The thought did not occur to her, for all thought had flown out of her head.
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