They shall hear of me no more. The washerwoman reported that she had seen a man one day riding out for an early morning hunt, but was unsure of his identity. "Don't stir," replied Jack. 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.
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