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Sheppard, meekly. A door, it may be remembered, opened from Wild's dwelling into this yard. Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song. “And what was that dreadful confession you had to make?” he was saying. 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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