Alas! that the punishment of his offences should fall on her head. 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. It was not possible. His jawline was 78 masculine and severe, only tempered by the soft hazy color of his eyes. That held his thought as the magnet holds the needle, inescapably. “You know,” he muttered, “you know quite well that your troubles are far more likely to weigh upon me than my own.
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