” She replied vaguely. The candle was shaking in his hand as Ruth appeared in the doorway. 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. “Wild horses—not if they have all the mounted police in London—shan’t keep me out. It was easy enough to lie to anyone else.
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