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The white haze of poison clouded her eyes. Cut it as short as you can. 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. All the village was assembled in the churchyard. He looked at her in some embarrassment.
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