Don't ask any more questions. 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. ” Annabel pulled up her veil. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky.
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