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At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead. He went to Harvard instead. “That’s HIM,” said Ann Veronica, in sound, idiomatic English. 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. It’s a damned hard thing to do. We have so much to be thankful for.
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