‘I am glad it is you, because you can help me. 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. It surprises you. The meat was coarse and disagreeably served. ‘Now let’s have it. "Give me your hand, Poll, to help me through," cried Jack, as he accomplished the operation. He was all alone, like herself.
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