Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. Her heart in her mouth, she heard his foot scrape on the floorboard and knew from his expression that Gosse had heard it too. "If I thought he lived——" observed Wood. ” She said in Lucy’s direction. Why? Here was a curtain indeed. " "I don't require it," returned Sheppard. 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.
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