There was a long silence between them. 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. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. You were never married at all.
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