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. They thought that she was her own mother. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. He pulled on her shoulder, bringing her mouth to his in a kiss. .
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