"Good Lord!—cannibals?" "Aye. 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. Perhaps she had found this new thing in life, the thing wonderful. "I am innocent. ” He did not appear to require any answer to his question.
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