’ He grimaced. “Better,” said Ann Veronica, with an unreal alacrity. 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. You’re going to live under the cat’s foot. The ruffled chemise-front under the wide lapels of her waistcoat and jacket no longer quivered, and her pose, with the full cloth petticoat spreading about her, was relaxed. Jack, who had been lingering near the group, now walked on.
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