“That thing’s going on,” she told herself. And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud. McClintock liked it. ‘But the fact remains that you should not have enjoyed it, you were quite right to threaten to kill me, and I— God help me!—should not have kissed you at all. It's mighty lonesome down there for a man bred to cities. Stanley changed his key. 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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