Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise. But I've not promised to stand by him yet; nor will I, unless he turns out an honest lad,—mind that. She was a much lighter and more frivolous person, very charming and companionable—but with a difference—a great difference. 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. Chapter XXVIII THE HISSING OF “ALCIDE” There was a strange and ominous murmur of voices, a shuffling of feet in the gallery, a silence, which was like the silence before a storm.
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