“Forgive me,” he said. He recognized me at once, and he behaved like a madman. 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. ‘You damned little fool! How dared you steal my sword?’ Her eyes flew open.
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