One chance in a thousand, and that would be the girl. 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. This had well nigh been the case with the carpenter. ‘Don’t tell me. This is a noted place for highwaymen. The day is already half over. Very slowly, very fearfully, she turned her head.
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