She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. 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. “Hill has asked for you, and they will take his depositions to-night.
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