She rose and attacked Lucy, kicking her with the grafted leg that was too big for her body. 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. The echoes of his hard, unpleasant laugh reached Anna on her way upstairs. . All her life Martha had been there.
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