"Oh God! she is dying," exclaimed Jack in a voice suffocated by emotion. She said that she couldn’t stand Mike. She fled. Swiftly following the sound of knocking, she crossed right and passed through a door near the windows—and found herself in the bookroom. 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. Love is a great thing, and happiness a joy. I was sorry for what I did afterwards; for, I don't know why, but, poor, lady! with her pale face, and black eyes, she reminded me of my mother. Sheppard, passing her hands over his face, and gazing at him with a look that made him shudder.
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