I may tell him, at any rate, that you will see him?” “I shall like to see him,” Anna answered. 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. " "I might have been able to do that if you hadn't told me … she cared. "You are all right?"—anxiously.
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