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 paused. ‘Jacques?’ ‘No. Gone off, cool as you please, and left me to manage everything. He was halfway across the ballroom, where the dancing had ceased for the musicians to take a well-earned rest, when Roding pounced on him. An inarticulate instinct which now found expression. It was as if the Devil himself had raped and defiled her mother. She detected that the young officer’s shoulders tensed whenever she moved in the back of his 94 car.
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