For some time he could not stir, but felt sick and exhausted. It slid off flimsily. 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. That she had not bought one piece of linen subtly established in Ah Cum's mind the fact that she had no home, that the instinct was not there, or she would have made some purchase against the future. When he tried the scullery door, and would have moved on, Hilary intervened. It was a beautiful place that she had found, a round cave by a small stream. There were two sisters, you know.
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