Sebastian rose from the tomb. 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. Some of them are now buried at the bottom of the Thames. Ruth and Spurlock separated, the one embarrassed, the other utterly dumfounded.
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