As he lay on his back, he fancied himself gradually slipping off the platform. 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. Once before—but that had been different. ‘Gérard—’ ‘What now?’ he asked, rife with suspicion. Anticipating this, Wild avoided the shot by suddenly, ducking his head. She made a curious movement toward her niece, then suddenly, convulsively, she dabbed down something lumpy on the table and turned to follow her brother.
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