Immediately a feathered hat emerged, under which a familiar countenance was visible. . ‘Parbleu, you waste time. 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. ‘I’ve had enough of this. Disappointed puppy-love, and all that. She was a lone white woman, therefore marked. It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back.
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