She made a curious movement toward her niece, then suddenly, convulsively, she dabbed down something lumpy on the table and turned to follow her brother. " "Let me see. . 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. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. . And in this fact lay his danger. Of course I knew all about him years ago, and he is exactly like everybody’s description of him.
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