" "Iss, Massa Ireton," replied the black. 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. He gripped the window-sill behind him. Without realizing what she has done, she's made a dreadful mess of it. Better take these sandwiches. Listen.
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