It did not seem quite fair. “I say!” he cried. 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. “I won’t have you quarrelling and crying in the Avenue,” he said. The day was warm even under an overcast sky and Hilary, uncomfortable, shifted his weight.
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