"Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. ” She eyed him scornfully. “They seem smaller, you know, even physically smaller,” she said. She answered weakly, “I’m fine, John. 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. He got out of the car and lifted her from the convertible before she could open the door.
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