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She reflected before answering. He seemed years younger, and the arrangement of his tie and hair were almost rakish. 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. It was no marriage at all. After the first onset several of the women who had apartments to let said she would not do for them, and in effect dismissed her. "Your enemy!" she returned imperfectly comprehending him.
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