All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them. 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. She felt him as something solid and strong and trustworthy beyond measure. He was astonished. Oh, Mr Jarvis paid no mind,’ she added hastily, as if expecting disapproval.
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