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. He had hurt her. I can withstand sunlight. Afterwards we started for déjeuner in a motor. Jonathan looked in that direction, and beheld the fugitives riding off in triumph. She felt a storm of emotion surging up within her.
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