“You may not leave. The truth was impossible, indecent. ‘And this is where you have been all the time?’ ‘I would have been back in a day, I promise you. 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. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. ’ ‘Slaughtered with the rest, was she?’ Despite his hatred of the woman who had caused so much grief, the general found he could not rejoice as he wanted to. ” Anna laughed, and went back to her easy chair. I’m sorry.
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