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. The man turned at the exclamation, and so did several of the bystanders; but they could not make out who had uttered it. But she did not in the least want to do that. Both of them. “Oh my God, what if she’s dead?” More giggling.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQ0LjE4Ny41NSAtIDAyLTA2LTIwMjQgMDM6NDU6MjIgLSAyMDIwMzcwNTkx
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