" "From some of your associates?" "From your uncle, from my uncle,—Sir Rowland Trenchard. Then he took the pulse. He pressed his lips to her with a much greater force than she had anticipated. Easy 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. Sheppard was no sooner alone than she fell upon her knees by the side of the couch, and poured forth her heart in prayer. People think it is, but they are wrong. He probably imagines himself to be a thousand times worse off than he actually is. Go and live somewhere else. He seldom spoke, and drank with a persistence that was sinister.
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