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. “Nice sleeve,” she said, and came to his hand and kissed it. “Awfully good of you, Teddy. ” Horace, the manservant, transformed now into the semblance of a correctly garbed waiter, threw open the door. ’ ‘Who were they?’ she asked abruptly.
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