2. Annabel had spoken calmly enough and steadily, but his brain refused at first to accept the full meaning of her words. Her patience was waning fast. 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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