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CHAPTER XXVI. The doctor walked over to the bed, folded his arms across his chest and stared down into the unabashed eyes of his patient. “That’s exhilarating,” said Ann Veronica. 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.
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