. He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment. ” “I shall always be grateful to you,” he declared. 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!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue. Fine but strong lines marked the profile: that would speak for courage and resolution. Taking her limbs was the only thing I could do short of killing her.
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