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“I feel quite sure that Mrs. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. 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.
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