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. He had been gone entirely one day, for yesterday afternoon he had departed from Remenham House, and she had waited with patience like a saint, and now it was again the afternoon. Usually it was fish sticks and reheated noodles. He came to her at once, and turning, walked by her side. ‘And with my grandfather Charvill also so very angry, it was not perhaps so very comfortable for my father. He wanted to know what the joke against him was—if any.
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