"Tom! Hey, Tom!" The Chinese cook thrust his head into the dining room. Strongly impregnated with the mingled odours of tobacco, ale, brandy, and other liquors, the atmosphere was almost stifling. The Jacobite daws want a scarecrow. 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. I can't keep a good man beyond three pay-days. ‘How do you know?’ ‘Exactly,’ pounced Roding bitterly. Listening on the dimlit landing, he saw Roding’s face muscles tighten.
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