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 brought her hands up to her head and ripped out two long chunks of her hair, pulling out shreds of scalp. ‘Well, water under the bridge is that, miss.
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