Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco. I do not say guest because that suggests friendship; and I am no friend of this Wastrel. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. Even Blueskin looked on with anxiety. 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. She appeared to be considering. After passing Tottenham Court Road, very few houses were to be seen on the right hand, opposite Wardour Street it was open country.
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