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. The walls of the room were lined with shelves, on which were glass jars, retorts, countless bottles and many appliances of surgical science. He seemed happy with her, finding her proper and seemly. She must learn wisdom—as God pleases.
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