“When it comes there is no mistaking it. Most of the time, he was hunting and he returned at night. ’ Abruptly, the niggling doubt that had been plaguing Lord Charvill came sweeping to the surface. 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.
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