He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. ’ ‘What is all this about your proof?’ demanded Roding, diverted. 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. “Dear me!” he said. ‘There’s no controlling you, is there?’ He held up his hands. Lucy’s cool. In spite of all this, he grew daily better and stronger, and his spirits revived. A lovely, fetching girl.
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