The Well Hole. 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. Little did he know that she had begged her parents as a youngster to get her a language tutor. The roofs and gables of many of the houses had been torn off.
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