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. Jackson, gallantly. What a frightened fool he was! If he could not remember her name, it was equally possible that already she had forgotten his. “You really couldn’t ride in it,” he said, deprecatingly. There was nothing left now of the selfassured, prosperous man of affairs.
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