‘You were his daughter. "But I can guess what it's for. Somehow to-night—I don’t know. Await me in the coach. Ramage,” she cried, “you are outrageous! You understand nothing. ” The sensation produced was gratifying enough. 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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