She was too delicate, too fragile to survive out there. ” “There was no marriage,” she answered. “Please play something for us,” Carol asked, her eyes aglow. 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. With a rustle of her full lilac petticoats, Miss Froxfield turned back to Alderley.
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