When it came time to eat once again, she hid out on the beach, a remote fastness beyond the city walls, a swampy morass that everyone avoided. 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. His face will be all I need. A door, it may be remembered, opened from Wild's dwelling into this yard. But it was not so ordered. Lord, what a state I was in! Night after night I sat there, I watched her come in, I watched her go.
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