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 want her to tell me the whole truth about this extraordinary marriage. "There's the house," said Jack, pointing to a pretty cottage, the small wooden porch of which was covered with roses and creepers, with a little trim garden in front of it. No mercenary consideration influences me. It had ceased raining, but the atmosphere was moist and chill, and the ground deluged by the recent showers.
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