" "Very well. "I didn't think you'd been so easily fooled, Joan. 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, in a way, something of a joke to the doctor: psychology and physiognomy on an island which white folks did not visit more than three or four times a year, only then when they had to. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward.
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