Melusine, used to the stark surroundings of the convent at Blaye, had no complaint to make. His pale and boyish waist was nearly as slim as her own. Certain simple purposes emerged from the disingenuous muddle of her feelings and desires. 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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