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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. II. Her voice was soft and singularly musical; but from time to time she uttered old-fashioned words which forced him to grope mentally. "When is he to suffer?" she demanded, fixing her large black eyes, which burnt with an insane gleam, upon him. " "Did you discover any trace of footsteps?" inquired Jack eagerly. We meant to make it dinner and a theatre, but you were not home.
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