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. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order. "You've been quizzing my friend Kent, I perceive, in your Burlington Gate. ‘Oh! little Vee!’ he cried, ‘little Vee!’ and put his face between his hands and sat still for a long time before he broke out again. “You are my friend,” she said, “if any one is. The dizziness made the trees sickening, the smell of Michelle’s perfume soapy and revolting. Her cheeks flushed a dull red. When Captain Darrell's birth is ascertained, I've no doubt he'll turn out a nobleman's son.
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