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. He dined, and then pleaded a political engagement. The unequal battle went on. He had plugged along, if not happy, at least with sound philosophy. Sheppard, again arresting his departure. CHAPTER III.
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