‘Went to the dogs, did Jarvis, after Mary died. 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. Sheppard trembled violently; and though she understood his meaning too well, she answered,—"I can't guess.
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