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. “Maternity,” she said, “has been our undoing. There was question in Gerald’s gaze as it met hers, and apology in his voice. But did any woman get anything better from a man? Perhaps every woman conceals herself from a man perforce!. You have never seen the child within your arms perishing from hunger, and no relief to be obtained. ’ ‘Lucky indeed,’ answered Gerald, glancing at the pair again.
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