“I would like to go home,” she cried, “to please her. But between us, we'll have him writing books some day. 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. Then he hovered undecidedly for some seconds with his hands in his pockets and his mouth puckered to a whistle before he turned to go home by the Avenue. “We always have things out with OUR father, poor dear!” said Hetty. The detective backed out slowly and closed the door without sound. ” She replied. ’ ‘Well for him,’ remarked Captain Roding.
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