She stole a few glances at John as she stood and played the pieces. “You ask me to be engaged to you, Mr. His face turned a dark crimson. 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. Can I be of any assistance? I can assure you that it would give me very much pleasure.
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